


Wolves On The Run (little red and the big bad wolves)

by goddamngypsy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual Wolf Pack, Alive Laura Hale, Angst, Banshee!Lydia, Chris is a good man, Drama, Emotional Trauma, F/F, F/M, Female Homosexuality, Gen, I don't know what else, Love, Lust, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mates, Mentions of knotting, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Paganism, Personified!Earth, Physical Abuse, Spark!Stiles, Stiles & Allison are siblings, Trigger Warnings, Violence, Werewolf!Allison, Werewolf!Stiles, Werewolves, Witch!Danny, alpha/beta/omega, it's been a long week, kate is evil, mentions of torture, slight AU, sterek, through marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 60,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddamngypsy/pseuds/goddamngypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves On The Run (little red and the big bad wolves)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, just to let everyone know, I’ve been working on this story for _ever._. Like, literally, I didn’t really have a direction with this story and I didn’t have a plot, and it sat in my WIP folder for months, and I mean _months_ , guys, but then I went on a seriously long and miserable two-month road trip for work, and this _fucking blossomed_ into probably the best story I’ve ever written, WITH PLOT. 
> 
> I’ve re-read my work, and tried to fix all my mistakes, but I’m sure there’s still some, so don’t berate me. I can only do so much! I am just one person.
> 
> Please, leave comments on what you thought of it! It’s the first +60K story I’ve ever written, and I’d like to hear what everyone has to say about it! 
> 
> **Trigger Warning: Physical Abuse, Mentions of Torture, Emotional Trauma, Murder**. Please be warned.

**Wolves On The Run** ( _little red and the big bad wolves_ )

* * *

* * *

_November_

Stiles stares at his hands, his eyes blurry and wet and his head pounding from being bounced off the door like a goddamn basketball. 

He doesn’t know how he did it, but here he is, amongst the trees in the Preserve with one bloody, scuffed up hand and a few crackled knuckles and a wish on his split lips that sounds like a prayer. “I just want to get away from here,” he begs to whoever is listening, “I want to be someone else, somewhere else, if only for a little while.”

His eyes burn, his cheeks feel wet and clammy. Why cry? She’ll only see his dirty face when he gets back home and laugh at him, call him _weak_ , probably do more to him. Last week she burned his thigh with her curling iron, and he can hide that with pants, and he can blame his cracked knuckles and split lip on lacrosse. 

He stuffs his bloody hand into the dirt, his mother’s voice in his head, whispering; _”the land remembers, baby, and never forget that, okay? Just ask her for what you want, and she’ll give it to you.”_

He closes his eyes. “Please,” he begs, and his face still feels tacky in a way that means he’s stopped crying, at least for now. 

The soil moves beneath his hand, tugging at the jagged edges of his tattered skin. He raises the hand to his face and gasps, watches the skin knit itself back together leaving behind a soft, pale scar as a reminder. There’s a light beneath his fingers, swirling up his arm and climbing up his chest. 

A sound reaches his ears then, and it sounded like a wish being granted; a sigh; a howl.

The moon is high in the sky when Stiles opens his eyes again. Had he fallen asleep? He shakes himself awake, patting his chest, trying to find where the light had vanished to, but it seems to have disappeared entirely. Stiles curses softly, staring from his hand to the ground, still moving subtly beneath his body. He rolls to his feet, staring at the scar on his palm. His feet carry him home, the forest growing quiet as he leaves, and the sound of a woman crying reaches his ears, but it’s faint, just barely there, lost in the sound of the wind picking up around him.

The wolves watch patiently from the trees.

* * *

_August_

"Ahh, you again.” Stiles chuckles lightly, pulling his hoodie over his face as the rain sprinkles down around him, dripping from the treetops and creating dark spots all over the material. “You know, there's a girl missing from town. They think her body may be here in the forest. You might wanna be a little more careful.”

The black beast grunts lowly, the sound reverberating in his chest, echoing within Stiles’ ribcage. The beast doesn’t stop his pacing, circling Stiles like prey—maybe he is prey. 

“You shouldn't be here, big bad. You'll end up a suspect with your wonderful demeanor." Stiles rolls his eyes, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie to prevent himself from fidgeting. He’s a little nervous, he’ll admit it to himself at least, but never aloud, not in front of _him_.

The black wolf just huffs as if he’s unimpressed and reluctantly comes up to Stiles’ side, nosing his way against the boy’s leg. The boy leans against the tree truck at his back, scratching lightly behind the wolf’s ears. He’s clutching his ribs as he slowly slides down the tree trunk, taking a spot beside the wolf with a soft wince. 

The boy has a busted lip and a bruised cheek, and the wolf squints his eyes at the wounds. They’re recent, maybe only a day or two old.

"I'll never understand why you came here.” Stiles says around a hiss that sounds more painful than the last. “Beacon Hills is like, the last place on earth I'd ever want to be. I mean like, I can see if you had a pack or something here to like, come home to, maybe?” The boy shrugs, wiping his sleeve under his nose as he sniffles. “But even then, I mean, Beacon Hills?" Stiles seems unimpressed, shrugging as if he doesn’t understand any of it, and the wolf doesn’t expect him to. “You, mister werewolf, need to get it together. This town is shit. The people are shit. You should find a nice town south of the border to maul small boars in or something."

The golden-eyed wolf just stares at the boy, the fake amusement rolling off of him in waves that make Stiles scoff with a weak grin. The wolf huffs again, a small mercy to the boy’s undying ability to talk his ear off and sits back on his haunches. 

Stiles purses his battered, split lip, mauling over his thoughts before he begins to think again, falling into a funnel of swirling dreams that involve running far far away with the wolf—he’d offered, once or twice, but Stiles had shook his head each time, laughing off the thought of running away, like that could solve all his problems. 

The wolf stands then, pulling Stiles out of his never-ending thoughts. Stiles’ mouth snaps shut as the wolf turns on him, bodily crawling into his lap and forcing the boy onto his back. The youth groans when the beasts paw lands square on a sore rib—he’d been favoring that side all day, trying to avoid standing straight up due to the blinding pain that rocketed up his entire person. The wolf pulls back its paw, whining softly in an apologetic tone, making sure to avoid that side entirely.

Stiles strokes the wolfs fur, whispering; "come on, this can't happen here," he pleads softly, "there is a jogging path, right over there! Look! People could see!" 

The wolf didn't care as he noses he way over Stiles’ neck, panting softly. The pleased growl that releases itself from the beasts’ throat makes Stiles’ bones ache in a good way.

The shift happens instantly, fur falling away and gold eyes bleeding into pale, emerald green orbs, and then there he is—staring down at the boy intently. Stiles finger’s twitch at his side as he hesitantly snakes them up the man’s muscled forearms and over his shoulders, lacing them together behind the older man’s head.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes softly, his eyes full of wonder, and the man’s eyes trace his lips with hunger. He crushes their lips together eagerly without a moments notice, mouthing dryly at the others chapped, chaste pecks.

The faint taste of blood lingers on the wolf’s lips as he pulls away a moment later, panting softly still. His eyes blaze a bright gold, his eyelashes catching small droplets of rain as they fall and dampen his human skin. Stiles’ face is speckled with water as well, glistening over his pale flesh like dew attached to the grass at dawn.

The wolf grins down at him deviously, but Stiles’ eyes are far away, looking past the wolf and beyond. 

The wolf frowns, nosing at Stiles’ bruised cheek lightly. The boy flinches, turning back to the wolf as his eyes refocus and zero in on Derek’s pale features. His brows furrows in confusion as his hand cups his cheek, rubbing at the sensation Derek’s nose left behind. 

Now that the wolf is up close, he could see the scabbed over wound running through the boys left brow, the pale yellow and green of the faded bruises on his cheek and the dark blood at his lip, the same split open back up at the force of Derek’s kiss. Derek flinches at that, recoiling into himself in shame. He never meant to hurt Stiles.

“What is it?” They boy asks gently, cupping the wolf’s stubbled cheek, his eyes dark and glossy in a way they shouldn’t be, ever. “Huh? Speak.” The boy beckons, his split lip turning up in a grin that looks painful. 

The wolf nods hesitantly at Stiles’ face, jutting his chin at the scab in his eyebrow, before leaning forward and trailing his lips over the dark, angry-looking bruises marring the boy’s features. He’d kiss away the marks if he could, if Stiles would _let_ him.

Stiles eyes grow distant again, and the wolf growls impatiently, his teeth lengthening and eyes flashing gold. Stiles comes back a few moments later, his eyes burning behind his sockets as a sobs racks through him, sounding wet and painful. “It’s her again.” Stiles grasps at his right side, at the impression of his fists, “you should see the things she does to Allison.” Stiles looks away, his anger rolling off of him in waves. “I know she’s my step-mom, but she’s _awful_ , Derek, and dad is so sick, I can’t…” He trails off, then checks the cracked screen of the watch at his wrist. He curses, looking lost. Finally he pushes at Derek’s shoulders easily, and the man moves off of him without a second’s hesitation, and the boy rolls to his feet, shaking his head as he says; “I have to get back home.”

Derek grips the boy’s hand in his before he can leave, looking up at him from his kneeling position with determination in his pale green eyes. “Mine,” he growls, but the boy only smiles sadly down at him, touching his cheek tenderly. 

“Yours,” he says with a nod, eyes filling to the brim with tears as he trots away with a trailing sob.

* * *

“Where have you been?” Kate glares down at him, gripping his chin in her grasp. He stares back at her definitely, his lips forming a tight seal as he refuses to speak. Her fingertips leaves bruises in his jaw when her grip tightens, and she smiles wickedly. “Stiles.” She says his name in a sickeningly sweet tone, “I asked you a question.” 

He closes his eyes, willing them not to water as her manicured fingernails dig into the fresh bruise at his jawline—she’d got him as soon as he’d opened the door, and he hadn’t even flinched because he’d known it was coming. 

“The preserve.” He answers softly. She won’t let go until he answers anyways. Allison looks up at him from the kitchen table, her brown eyes wide and pleading—pleading for him to lie.

Kate releases his chin with a rough shove and stares at him, her bright eyes wide with angry. ‘What have I told you about going there.” She seethes, her teeth clinching together as she rears back and backhands him across the cheek.

Allison flinches away, setting her fork down and looking at her hands beneath the table; her bruised, wretched knuckles and the finger-shaped impressions all over her wrists and forearm. “Stiles,” she whimpers, trying to meet his gaze.

Kate hisses at her, her eyes lingering on Allison’s frail form before turning back to Stiles slowly, her features livid in a way that shouldn’t be familiar to Stiles or Allison—but is.

Stiles wouldn’t meet his sister’s eyes, but he had seen the new red, splotchy bruise blossoming around Allison’s orbital sockets. It was a good thing it was summer break and neither of them had jobs, but school started in a week or two, then Kate couldn’t touch them again till Fall Break—both he and Ally knew how much she loved to marvel at the bruises she left on them when she could actually see them properly; she likes the way the light hit them in the afternoon, she likes to revel in the way they _glistened_. 

“Sorry, Kate.” Stiles sputters, his tongue coming up to lick the inside of his upper lip, tasting the new blood that spills from his inner cheek and coats his teeth in a coppery tang.

“What did you call me?” Kate asks, her pupils are pinpricks against the blue of her irises. Her fist is clinching at her side and Stiles’ heart rockets to his throat, choking off his air. His ribs ache in defeat.

Stiles swallowed. “S-sorry, mom.” His gut twists in shame. She’s never been a mother—this isn’t _his_ mother.

Kate’s smile is blinding, bright and full of joy that shouldn’t be hers. 

“Good boy.”

* * *

The black wolf growls low in his throat, starring in through the windows like some sort of pervert. Stiles his, not hers. She has no right to touch him, she has no right to live, hasn’t even earned the right to _breath_ the same air as Stiles.

The wolf’s sister trots up beside him quietly, the rest of their pack hanging back slightly, letting the siblings have their moment. “Derek,” she whispers, his fur falling away as she drops her wolf-skin and turns to face her brother fully, putting her hand on his coat to sooth his bristles. “Derek, listen to me.” She urges, caressing his angry muzzle.

Derek turns his head towards her, but he didn’t drop his wolf-skin. 

“He’ll come to us when the time is right.” She places a hand on his muzzle, soothing him like their mother used to when they were children, pulling his lips over his exposed teeth, pressing a palm to his wet nose and sliding her whole hand up between his eyes and patting his forehead. 

He sneezes at that, shaking his head and rubbing his paw against his muzzle. He still felt angry, still felt his rage bubbling like molten lava in his heavy heart. Laura places a kiss to the side of his face and he turns just in time to lick her before she shifts back, nipping at his neck and motioning for him to follow her. 

He did, with one last look up at the window, where his boy resides, locked away like some fair prince in the wicked witches keep.

* * *

Night feels like peace. 

Kate sleeps soundly beside his sick father, ignoring the wet cough that makes Stiles breathless with worry and anxiety. He stares up at his ceiling, eyes wide and mind awake. His cradles his right side, presses his fingers into the soreness to keep himself awake.

The soft pitter-patter of tiptoeing feet in the hallway reach his ears and he tenses, his fingers digging gullies into his tender ribs as he waits, suspended in a constant state of fear.

The doorknob twists quietly, holding in place as it’s pushed open. “Stiles?” Allison whispers, her face peeking in through the crack in his door. “Are you awake?” 

Stiles breathes a sigh, pulling back the covers and doesn’t bother answering as she walks in, closing the door behind her before finally releasing the doorknob, creeping across the wooden floors, avoiding the one that creaks and crawling into bed beside Stiles. She pulls the covers up around them both, curling into Stiles’ side and pulling his fingers away from his injured ribs.

“You’ll have to leave before Kate wakes up.” Stiles mutters. “She got you good tonight.” Stiles reaches up slowly, drawing his thumb across the rim of Allison’s battered eye. 

She flinches, turning her face away so that his fingers can’t trace the outline of Kate’s knuckles. “You need to stop making her so mad, Stiles.” Allison snuggles closer, whispering softer.

Stiles sits up quickly, cringing as the pain flares up in his ribs, but he charges on. He grabs Allison’s hand and tugs her up with him despite her whimpered protests when his hands wrap around her blue wrist. “I didn’t get you in trouble too, did I?” He asks hastily, cupping Allison’s face in his hands. The guilt that builds in his gut feels like fire, like lead and thick, thick poison, and he wants to vomit. If he got Allison in trouble too, he’ll die a little more inside.

She shakes her head, sighing and pulling his hands away from her face. She traces the scar at his palm, running her blunt fingernails over the length of his hand. “She saw me in town with Scott today.”

“Ally,” Stiles sighs in defeat, and maybe a little bit of relief as well, dropping down to the pillow once more, pulling her into his side when she begins to sniffle.

“I wish dad would get better already.” Allison sighs unhappily, wiping at the corner of her uninjured eye.

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes, thinking of golden eyes and pointed teeth and black, black fur. “We should run away.” 

Allison nods seriously, not even pausing to really think about the outrageous fact that they’re both seventeen years old and Stiles is trying to get them to run away together. He’d tried to once, when he was younger, with Scott. 

“Where would we go?” Her eyes are bright, even in the darkness. She’s really considering it, dreaming of a life away from Kate, away from their dying father who they haven’t even seen in, god, eight months now? She shakes her head, dislodging the thought and staring up at the ceiling and imagining a night sky, splattered with bright stars and the overhanging canopy of treetops.

Stiles grins. “Wanna go now?” 

Derek would take them, had begged him to come away with him several times, to disappear into the dark like gypsy children.

Allison’s grin matched his as she nodded and kissed his bruised cheek like a saint.

* * *

“They’re coming!” Erica calls, shifting out of her wolf-skin, “the girl and the boy, Derek’s boy! He’s coming!” Her smile is blinding, looking so much like the sun that Boyd’s heart stutters momentarily. 

Isaac turns his head, ears perking up. 

“Come on,” Boyd whispers beside him, patting his shoulder and standing from the ground and catching the blonde girl as she skips around them merrily. She giggles playfully, lacing their human fingers together, smiling back at her.

“We’ll get Laura and Derek. They should be the first ones to meet them, not us.” 

At that, Erica whined and he kissed her knuckles softly, “not yet.” He promises, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. She pouts but nods, tugging him with her as she turns back into the forest.

Isaac stands then, stretching lazily before he turns and followed the other two, searching for their Alpha and her second.

* * *

Sneaking out is easy enough, both bags slug over their shoulders and packed to their fullest. Kate sleeps through everything, mostly because she knows neither of them would actually have the gumption to run away. But it’s been years since his father married Kate, months since his father got sick and Kate refused to let either of his children see him. Stiles wasn’t even sure if his father was even alive anymore, considering the smell that came from the room most days. 

Mysterious, Chris had been thrown in jail some years ago, and Victoria had _mysteriously_ died, filed away as a suicide—but who dies of a drowning suicide, except Odysseues’ mother? Kate wasn’t even Allison’s mom, but her aunt, and since Gerard had died of cancer, Kate was all that Allison had. Then they’d met John and Stiles the beginning of freshmen year, and the rest had been history.

Stiles shrugs his bag further up his shoulder as Allison follows him down the deserted back road, deeper into the Preserve. Allison grunts beside him softly, her soft noises a comfort to the never-ending silence of the forest. “Stiles?” She asks quietly.

He looks over his shoulder at her, humming softly. 

“Where are we going to go?” She asks wearily, and Stiles just nods his head at the foreboding darkness in front of them.

Allison shivers in anticipation. “What about Scott? Couldn’t we just go there?”

“Don’t you think Melissa would call dad, or worse, Kate?” He wipes a sleeved arm under his nose. “We’d get the worst beating ever if she called. I love Melissa, but we can’t risk it. Even if she knows what Kate does to us.”

Allison nods stiffly, agreeing reluctantly. Stiles knows she likes Scott, know they had been on a few dates, but that is all in the past now. If Scott wants to find them, he will. It’s just as simple as that.

The land weeps softly in Stiles’ wake, but Stiles ignores it.

* * *

The wolves watch the shadows approach from the darkness of the forest. Derek can smell the sickly scent of day old sweat clinging to their human skin and hair. He could smell the scent of old, clotted blood, curling in clusters of bruises and scabs; it’s cloying in his stomach, makes his skin prickle with anger. Most of all, he could smell them coming closer, and that make’s his heart rocket, because he knows it’s _him_.

A second wolf comes to Derek’s side. She huffs, nudging her brother’s shoulder when the human’s finally break through the tree line, still maybe twenty feet off. Laura can hear the way Derek’s nervous heart pounds in his chest. She feels a sense of snobbish pride build in her gut, licking Derek’s muzzle. She knew the boy would come to them, told Derek as much, and yips at him playfully in an ‘I told you so’ manner, before she slinks off to check the perimeter once more. 

“Hey, big bad,” the boy croaks softly, setting his bag down with a grunt. He’s still curled in on his hurt side, extending a hand to the golden eyes beast as a gesture of peace.

“Oh,” the girl beside him sighs softly, surprised, dropping her bag and kneeling on bruised knees. “They’re beautiful, Stiles.” She says, and Derek tilts his head at her, seeing her looking off in the distance. She must be Allison, Stiles’ sister, Derek concludes, then shivers. She does look like Kate, a little, in the right light maybe, and maybe if she dyes her hair and wears contacts and had a bit of plastic surgery—Derek shakes his head, because no, actually, she doesn’t look anything like Kate.

“They?” Stiles looks at her questionably, and that’s when Laura slinks back into view, appearing from around the burnt shell of their old house. She takes her seat beside Derek once more, staring intently at the siblings in front of her—her heart in her throat at their battered bodies. 

“Oh,” Stiles grins, hesitantly extending his palm to Laura. “I normally only deal with Derek.” He says with a soft, breathy laugh, nodding his chin towards the darker wolf. 

Allison giggles, shaking her head in amusement. “Only you, Stiles.” 

Laura huffs, but sniffs at Stiles’ hand obediently before licking his palm, noticing a small, sliver of a scar across his palm. 

“Stiles, is this why you’ve been running off to the forests? For wolves?” Allison grins at his side, folding her hands into her jacket pockets to keep the chill out of her bones. “I would’ve too,” she says with a quick nod, “had I known this is what you were doing. They’re so tame.” She rolls to her feet. “I wonder if they were pets before—”

Stiles is laughing, he’s laughing so hard he has to clutch his right side and curl in on himself a bit, wiping the tears away from his eyes as he turns to her. “Ally,” he croaks, shaking his head with a dying laugh, “they’re werewolves.” 

Allison scoffs, but turns to look at the wolves with consideration, as if it’s not the craziest thing she’s ever heard.

“I asked you to come before.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and in the glint of moonlight, Derek can see the new bruises that pinch along his jawline—finger shaped and angry looking. 

He shifts instantly, ignoring the startled gasp he gets from Allison. He’s furious as he gently cradles Stiles’ face in his hand. He turns the boys face from side to side, his heartbeat in his ears, creating a wash of white noise over Laura’s gentle warning growl. Derek traces his claws over the newest bruises, his eyes flickering between molten gold and emerald green-grey. 

“Do you want it?” Derek asks, and Laura growled beside him again, this time more in annoyance than anything else. She shifts too, dropping her wolf skin, appearing beside him, stark naked in the moonlight. 

The girl to Stiles side stares straight at him, swallowing thickly around a lump in her throat. She breathes deeply, her voice catching. “Stiles?” She asks weakly, trembling. “What’s happening? Are, what, you—” She swallows again, covering her mouth in shock.

Stiles grins and stares at Derek like he’s the sun on a cold, winter day. “Werewolves, Ally. I told you.” His eyes flicker to Allison for a fraction of a second, winking at her playfully. 

Derek growls and forces Stiles’ eyes back on him.

“Answer.” Derek demands, his claws pricking the boys’ skin just ever so slightly.

“Yes.” He says, the determination in his voice make’s Derek’s knees weak.

Laura rolls her eyes, coming up to his side. “Hi,” she offers to both of them, then pulls at the collar of Stiles shirt, exposing the long line of his neck and shoulder. “This may pinch a bit, okay? Just breathe through it.” She offers a weak smile and Stiles nods, turning back towards Derek with a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. 

Derek kisses him quickly as Laura’s teeth extend past her lips and close around Stiles’ neck in one quick, sharp movement. The boy let out a shocked, muffled cry—Allison does too, only hers isn’t muffled—but Derek swallows it up quickly, delving deeper into the boy’s mouth, his warm tongue wrestling against Stiles with vigor. 

Laura’s teeth retract after a second, wiping her mouth of the strange tasting blood and the electricity vibrating through her teeth. She stares at her hand, at the crimson smear across her palm and fingers. Her tongue feels heavy coated in his strange blood, as if she’d just swallowed something full of lead. She frowns, swallowing the remaining blood curiously, feeling it wash down her esophagus and rest in her belly, light and heavy, all at once.

She looks up at the boy instantly, realizing he’d been magic before this, even if he hadn’t known it. She watches her brother kiss his boy, his _mate,_ and watches as the boy’s slowly fading strength drains from him completely. Derek kisses softer, leaching the pain of the bite away from him, her brother’s veins running black beneath his skin.

Stiles doesn’t make a sound as his eyes flutter shut and Derek finally pulls their mouths apart with a grateful sigh and a delighted smile. Derek catches his falling body, watches the blood slowly drip from Laura’s bite mark. 

“You picked a strong one.” She mutters softly, stroking Derek’s hair as he slowly cradles the boy’s body against his chest, lowering him to rest on the ground. “But what about the girl?” Laura asks, sparing a glance to the shocked, wide-eyed Allison.

Derek glances at her too, but only for a moment, before his eyes flicker back to Stiles’ resting face, his lips still wet from Derek’s tongue. The bite at his neck is already healing up nicely, knitting together neatly. He grins happily, placing a hand over the healing mark, watching as the new skin turns pink.

“Offer her it, too.” He shrugs, because he doesn’t see the point in splitting up siblings, especially Stiles and his sister—and as long as Allison is willing. “No harm in a bigger pack.”

“Please,” the girl mutters, too hurried and too fluid, bubbling forth from her without a second thought.

Derek looks over at her, raising a brow. Her face is pretty, sharp and bruised, just like Stiles’. She smells like old blood and family curses, like sweat and anger, whereas the boy mainly smells like sand and sun baked rocks and pain. Derek scoffs halfheartedly, looking up at Laura pointedly. “She definitely is an Argent,” he whispers, too low for Allison to hear.

Laura grins in a lopsided way, shaking her head playfully. “I guess our pack got a little bigger than we thought it would tonight.”

Allison stood and quickly walked over to Laura’s side, briefly looking down at her brother before meeting Derek and Laura’s eyes. “I-I want this,” she says, and Laura doesn’t hear the skip in her heart, but she does see the hesitation in her eyes.

She places a careful hand on Allison’s shoulder, “I won’t bite you if you don’t want it,” she says, watching as Allison tugs at her lower lip, worries the skin between her teeth. 

“I do want it,” she says, “I want to be with Stiles,” she blinks, looks lost for a split second, then comes right back to Laura’s gaze, “he’s my brother.”

“That’s not a reason to become a werewolf.” Laura chuckles softly, pats the girls cheek lovingly. 

“Please?” Allison begs, her hand coming up to close around Laura’s hand. The older woman stares at the girl, at the black and blue eye, the split lip, the bruised knuckles and knees. 

Laura sighs, nods her head slowly. “Stiles knows about us, or at least, about Derek, and now me. He’s been exposed to us for a long time now, and Derek’s offered him the bite many times. I’ve accepted Stiles into my pack as one of my beta’s, and if I bite you too, you will become one of my beta’s as well.” 

Allison nods, pulls back the collar of her shirt and turns her head to the side. Laura glances at Derek once, who isn’t even looking at her. Her teeth close around the girl’s neck without a second thought. Allison’s eyes remain open the whole time, until Laura pulls away a few seconds later. 

The girl grins, coughing a small amount of blood up as her eyes close. “Thank you,” she whispers, then passes out soon after. 

“She’s strong, too.” Laura observes, pushing the hair out of Allison’s face and behind her ear—this way, she can see the bite heal and know if the bite takes or not. “Argent blood or not, she has more strength in her than the whole lot of them.”

Derek nods, but he continues to stare down at the dark bruises marring his boys face. He can’t imagine what Allison and Stiles had been going through, living with Kate the way they had over the past few years. It’s only been a few months since they met in the forest one rainy day long ago, and it was crazy to think he could convince this beautiful boy to run away with him and his pack, but here he was, bitten and marked and ready to disappear as if he never existed.

“Let them rest.” Laura whispers, pulling Allison’s sweater closer to her body. “I’ll gather the others.” She gets up, trots away in her wolf skin with a smile.

Derek sighs, “just a little longer,” he begs, lying beside Stiles, watching as slowly the bruises begin to fade. He places his forehead against the boys shoulder, closing his eyes.

* * *

Erica, Boyd and Isaac come out of the clearing not too many hours later, their noses high in the air, sniffing at their new pack mates and their still, resting bodies. Erica shifts first, followed by her mate, Boyd, still in his wolf-skin. 

“Cute one, Der.” She grins deviously, her eyes glowing gold in the moonlight as she paces around the two unconscious bodies.

Boyd grunts beside her, shifting more subtly than his mate. The dark skinned boy nods in approval, looking over the siblings, assessing their physique. “What about the girl?” He asks, his voice harsh and gruff from the lack of use.

“His sister.” Derek shrugs, “through marriage.”

“They’re pretty banged up.” Isaac mutters, softly, having shifted quietly and approached even quieter. Derek knew Isaac had a soft spot of the similar bruises that for him, never seemed to fade, no matter what form he took. “Good choice, adding them to the pack.” He kneels beside Allison, stroking her hair from her face slowly, fingers brushing over her high cheekbones.

Laura sighs, shaking her head as she emerges from the forest last. “We should leave in the morning, if they can shift and keep up.”

Derek nods. “I don’t want him to have to stay here any longer than we have to.” He glances at Allison—he means it about her, too.

* * *

Stiles dreams of running, of electricity in the sky, of pulling the lighting from the clouds and moving it from his fingertips outwards towards a woman with blonde hair, standing in stark contrast against the dark sky.

Her smile is filled with blood and malice, and at her feet are countless bodies of wolves, all different colors of black and grey—Derek’s _family,_ he realizes, too late.

The woman laughs like Kate.

He summons up his power, his anger, his rage, conjuring up the lightening and willing it to strike her in the chest. When she glances down at the gaping hole in her breast, the surprise etched in her features is almost tangible. Stiles can taste it on his tongue, thick and heavy.

The sound of weeping follows him, even as the dream fades, and the smell of fresh grass and dark, rich soil clog his senses.

* * *

Stiles’ eye flutter open as the sun peaks over the horizon of the treetops. He’d all but forgotten the dream as he glances around him, curious and achy from his position on the cold ground. His vision is clearer, a fog that he hadn’t noticed before is gone, showering him with flakes of colors he couldn’t put a name to, even if he’d wanted to. Allison is already awake beside him, staring at him with wide, alert eyes, worrying her lip between too sharp teeth. 

“Hey,” she mutters, her slow smile blinding with the bruises and scabs gone. 

“Hey,” he greets back, crawling over to her side sleepily. He brushes an unruly strand of dark hair behind her ear with a huff, smiling nervously. “You look better.” He says, following the lithe line of her neck down to her throat, where, despite his best wishes, nearly invisible scars that resembled teeth marks encircled her throat—duplicates of his. “You too?” He asks, but his nose is already picking up on the faint traces of wolf within her—which makes him pause for a second, sniffing at the scent of wolf within Allison, new and blossoming, hidden behind her anxiety. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt before, knowing someone’s emotions, tasting their nervousness on his tongue, their fears. 

She nods hesitantly, bites her lip out of nervous habit and steadies her gaze on Stiles. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind, Stiles. I just—“

“No, no, no, Ally,” Stiles sits back, taking her hand in his, watching her heartbeat rocket up out of her throat, “Ally I’m actually happy about this.” His voice cracks eagerly, and he’s not lying, not really, he just wishes she hadn’t have had to experience the pain of the bite, but maybe Allison won’t notice. “This means we can stay together always.” His grin is wide, teeth showing through plump, healthy lips.

Allison smiles back. “The others went off into the forest, they said they’d be back in a bit.” She nods towards the tree line, indicating, “they said we should try to shift and find them, if we can. But…” Allison looks down at her hands, where she can just barely manage claws, if she concentrates hard enough, “I don’t think I could figure out how to shift, even if I wanted to.” She laughs, maybe a little too bitterly, “they all do it so effortlessly.”

Stiles shrugs, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, accepting the challenge like any other math problem or chemistry problem he and Lydia—

Stiles cringes, slumping back. He’d never seen Lydia again. He’s never going to see Scott again.

“We’ll figure it out. It can’t be that hard.” He says softly, looking down at his hands. Allison doesn’t say anything, but she can sense his sadness in a way she couldn’t before, feels it in her bones like a crippling weight. She curls into his side, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“I love you.” She whispers, closing her eyes. “We’ll be okay.”

* * *

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Kate growls under her breath, searching the mall and the park for the final time. 

Allison and Stiles had been missing for just over two days, and even if they had run away, which _what the fuck,_ there is no way they could have survived on their own. Allison, maybe, because she’d been trained as a girl to be a hunter, just like Kate, but Stiles? No. He should be dead. He should be _fucking_ dead.

She growls and wrings the steering wheel between her hands, her grip white knuckled and tense. She sighs, blowing hot air from her lips as she bangs her head lightly against the wheel and thinks.

“Come on,” she says to herself, “where would you go?” 

And she swears to whatever God is listening, she’ll kill them both herself if she has to—but then the thought occurs. Stiles had gone into the Preserve the day before he’d gone missing.

She laughs, a bitter laugh.

“Of course.” Kate grins. They went into the forest and got themselves bitten by some goddamn werewolves. Kate pulls herself together and drives herself to the Police Department. 

She throws the car into park and searches in her purse for some eye drops, blinks a few into her vision and lets them roll down her cheeks, rubs at her makeup a few times till it looks good and smudged and her eyes redden. She pulls her hands through her hair and racking the silky strands into a fine mess, then hops out of the car and rushes into the building frantically.

Parrish is sitting against his desk when she approaches the reception desk. “Mrs. Stilinski?” He asks, sounding concerned and hesitant at the same time, pushing himself off his desk and towards her.

Kate wipes at her eyes in mock sadness, feeling wicked. “Deputy,” she sniffles, rubs her eyes and bows her head, hunching in her shoulders and looking small and broken, like any other woman would as she stutters out, darkly; “my children are missing.”

* * *

Getting the hang of shifting takes Stiles a few days longer than it does Allison. She’s able to clear her mind quicker than he is, and she shifts fluidly. Maybe it’s because of his ADHD, but he eventually gets the hold of it and shifts a little slower, his movements stuttered.

Derek stands beside him the whole time, surprisingly patient and understanding and helpful. “It took me three years,” he says, nodding seriously. “You got the hang of it in nearly a weeks.” He slaps Stiles on the back gently, kissing the side of his face as he walks off into the field with Laura and Erica. Erica winks at him, her long, slender back at his front, and he blushes—he’s never been surrounded by so much nudity before, and it’s still a little unnerving. 

Allison comes up beside him in her wolf-skin, smiling as she shifts to her human form and leans against him. Stiles cringes for a second, not used to seeing his sister in bare skin at all. Allison giggles freely, for the first time in what feels like forever, and Stiles revels in the sound. She courteously crossed her arms over her chest. He’ll get used to it, eventually, he knows, but it’s still weird to see his sister’s junk all the time.

“So you and Derek, huh?” She asks, hip-checking him. Stiles stumbles, then blushes.

* * *

Scott searches the park, the mall, the empty school, the old burnt-out shell of the Hale house in the Preserve, the warehouses, _everywhere_ , several times, but both Allison and Stiles have vanished like ghosts from Beacon Hills.

“Maybe they just had enough, Scott.” Melissa says softly, staring into her sons’ hurt-filled eyes and at his untouched lunch. He started coming by the hospital for lunch when they first learned about what Kate was doing to the kids, and after she chased Scott off for sitting too close to Allison. 

Melissa had known when John married Kate that she had a few problems, but she never knew they were this messed up. She never knew Kate would keep the kids locked up most days and beats them senselessly if they disobey—and, more surprisingly, she never knew John to be the type of man to go along with such a fucked up plan.

Everyone in town knew Kate was off, everyone in town knew Kate beat the Sheriff’s kids, but no one in town knew what had happened to the Sheriff—because, _what the fuck_. He got sick one day, and never got better, and then he was placed on leave from the department. He never came by the hospital, and Kate was seen around town with several different men.

Melissa has a sinking suspicion Kate has something to do with the Sheriff’s sickness, but that is just morbid, and no one should do able to do the things she’s done to those kids.

“I can’t find them anywhere, mom…” Scott moans sorrowfully, bringing Melissa back to the present. Her son’s eyes fill with tears and he collapses into his hands, cradles his face and cries, sobbing deeply. His shoulders shake and quiver as he hiccups miserably, and Melissa is by his side in a moment.

“Oh honey,” she whispers, offering the boy his emergency inhaler when he starts to wheeze erratically. “We’ll find out what’s happened, okay?” She whispers into her son’s hair, and God does she means to find out.

It’s been a week and a half already, and she knows the statistics of finding kids who have been missing this long.

* * *

Stiles slowly approaches Laura’s side, biting his lip nervously. He doesn’t know how to start this conversation, but he knows he needs to have it with her—or rather, he needs to ask her questions, if he ever wants to—well. 

She smiles up at him, and it reminds him of summer times spent in the middle of a lake with Scott, his dad, Lydia, Jackson and Melissa, before Kate came along and ruined everything, and Stiles isn’t sure how to handle that smile most days. 

Derek glances over at him, smirking playfully, before turning back to whatever he’s doing with Boyd and Isaac, while Erica leads Allison around the forest they’re currently passing through, pointing out plants to avoid in either form, because it’ll irritate their skin, or what kinds of berries to avoid all together. He can hear them talking off in the distance, feels Allison’s contentment like warm waves, and it’s still pretty neat that he can feel these kinds of things from his pack. 

Most of the time he’s able to tune out Erica and Boyd’s sex noises, but that’s still only sometimes… Which leads him to this ultimately terrifying, traumatizing conversation with their fearless pack leader, Laura. 

She arches a brow at him, growing more concerned as he fidgets in front of her nervously. “Wanna go on a walk?” She asks lowly and he nods quickly, relieved for the first time this morning. 

Derek looks up at him then, watching them walk off with a sad, worried look. Stiles shakes his head and follows Laura far enough away so that the rest of them can’t hear their conversation. 

Laura ducks and weaves as they bury themselves further in the forest, avoiding twigs and branches. Stiles follows dutifully, though his stomach feels like it’s in uncomfortable, warm knots, tugging him closer to the ground.

They approached a stream and Laura wades in easily, letting the water creep up to her breast, as if the briskness of the water didn’t even affect her. Stiles is a little more hesitant, but he eventually wades in up to his waist, standing there shivering for a minute before he sinks lower beneath the wake, meeting Laura’s gaze with intent.

She smirks, nodding her head. Her hands float on the water, drawing spirals and circles in the surface, disrupting the easy flow. “So what’s got you all nervous?” She asks, and Stiles gapes at her, blushing. He sinks a little lower in the water, covering his shoulders so he’s just a head above the surface.

“Sex,” he mumbles shamefully, bowing his head towards the water, avoiding her gaze. 

“Oh?” Her eyes grew wide with surprise. “Uh, w-what about it?” She asks, her brows drawing together in confusion. “Do we need to have like, you know, _the talk_? “

He shakes his head feverishly, waving a hand under the water. “Werewolf sex, in general?” He asks, looking at his hands through the clear stream. The water carries on past them, undeterred by their presence, and Laura giggles softly, walking closer to him.

“Oh Stiles,” she chuckles lowly, “are you sure you shouldn’t be having this conversation with my brother?”

Stiles groans, dips below the surface of the water completely and dies a little inside, feeling the embarrassment burning a bright red streak across his face. Laura’s laugh carries from above him, muffled by the water but still clear enough to recognize, and her hand dips to his shoulder, pulling him up with a tight, slippery grip. “Okay, okay,” she breathes, touching his red cheeks, “what’s your question then?”

“Are you sure they can’t hear us?!” He asks loudly, gesturing around them.

“Water pretty much muffles everything.” She gestures around her to the water, to the babbling of the stream over the rocks, the tiny leafs of fish, the movement itself, “and we’re in the middle of a running stream, so I think we’re safe, as long as you don’t start screaming.” She winks at him and Stiles blushes harder, averting his eyes. “Well?” She motions for him to speak.

Stiles stares at her for a moment before sighing again. “I met Derek for the first time a few months ago.”

“Mhmm,” Laura hums, nodding along with a soft smile. “I smelt you on him.”

Stiles just sighs, looks down at his hands, pruning up in the water. The thin scar across his palm stares back up at him, shining in the glare of the water as Stiles recalls the night he first met Derek—the terrified butterflies that corrupted his stomach and the undeniable desire to like every part of Derek’s anatomy. He blushes harder at the though. 

“He transformed right in front of me, Laura, I know you guys don’t care about nudity, but _goddamn_ ,” his ears burn, looking anywhere but at her face. “I know now that he could probably smell it on me,” he gestures at himself, “the embarrassment was probably more overwhelming than the—“ the gulps, gesturing with wide eyes and Laura nods, blinking owlishly, but encouragingly. He swallows thickly, trying to force the lump in his throat down, “and we did things, sometimes, after I got to know him a little more, but now—now, I think I want to, to try, you know, the real thing?” 

Laura purses her lips. “Ah,” she says, nodding. “Well, if you’re asking permission to sleep with my baby brother, you should know that I don’t care, but it’s his opinion you should get on the matter.” She grins brightly at him, and Stiles has to look away, a fresh, new wave of embarrassment washing over him at the thought of _asking_ Derek for sex. “But I get what you’re saying.” She purses her lips, looks to the side when she finally says, “whatever you’ve read about werewolf sex is probably true,” she sighs, running a wet hand through her hair, leaving behind a hand-sized shining, damp streak of hair. “Let me just get this out.” She breathes sharply, working herself up for it, then stares him down, her eyes systematically calculating Stiles’ reactions. She breathes out harshly, trying to force her own embarrassment away at the subject of _sex_ and her _brother_. “Male werewolves have knots, okay? Like real wolves or dogs.”

Stiles looks stunned, and Laura continues without a second thought, wanting nothing more than for this talk to be over, “and the first time it will hurt, but not in a bad way, just in an uncomfortable, sharp way. Or it did for me, at least. The second time it might hurt, but less so.” She shrugs, skims her hand over the surface of the water and moves in spirals outwards from her chest towards Stiles. She breathes easier. 

It seems so simple coming from Laura, but Stiles knows there must be more.

“So, all those porn sites, then, the whole knotting thing, that’s-that’s a thing? A _real_ thing?” Stiles is almost flabbergasted, looking at Laura with wide eyes, as if she’s lost her mind. “How is that even anatomically possible?!”

Laura nods slowly, almost hesitantly, but she doesn’t look back up at him. It’s probably for the best. They’re both pretty embarrassed about this. “It happens with mates, mostly. Werewolves can have normal sex, but with a mate, it’s almost impossible to control.” She shrugs again, glances up at him curiously. “I was an art major,” she says softly, as if it pains her, “I can’t give you an anatomy lesson, unless you wanna talk about drawing hands or feet or whatever,” she waves her hand, water dripping from her fingertips, some sliding in small streams down her wrist to her elbow, where it drips off and back into the body of water she soaks in. “You’re smart, you’ll figure it out.” She wades closer to him then, her torso rising out of the water as she approaches his higher position on the bank. She pats his cheek, “if you really care for my brother, you can have him as your mate, after you discuss it with him. But please, try not to play with his emotions,” she looks burdened, hurt in a way that Stiles knows she’s not telling him everything, and Stiles pays attention to the way her eyes twitch and gloss over slight when she says; “he’s had a rough past few years, so, you know. Be gentle with him.”

Stiles nods tentatively, swallows slowly. Laura smiles back at him encouragingly. She glances up and behind him as a twig snaps off to their right, signaling the arrival of someone from her pack—and her nose tells her exactly who it is. She grins deviously, removing her hand as if Stiles’ skin is burning through her. 

“Derek’s here for you,” she nods, and Stiles twitches, turning quickly to see the broad shouldered man creeping up on them, his human skin flawless in the sunlight. He pauses, taking in the sight of Stiles waist deep in water with his sister next to him, also waist deep and glistening; the stench of their mixed embaressement heavy in the air. He growls low in his chest, warning his sister away, and Laura laughs happily, the sound ringing out of her throat like silver bells and angels fucking wept. 

She rises onto the bank, walking up to her brother with dirt and wood chips clinging to her ankles as she makes her way to his side. She grins deviously up at her younger brother, then punches Derek in the shoulder playfully, digging her knuckle into his muscle. Derek grunts, winces away from her and rubbing at the arm with a high whine of; _“ow!”_ She walks past him, shaking her head and laughing loudly, her whole body shaking with the effort.

Derek looks back at Stiles, who wears a small, nervous grin, blinking up at him beneath long, wet lashes. “Hi,” he mutters, and Derek’s stomach does an uncomfortable flip.

Derek purses his lips, rubbing at the tender spot where Laura dug her knuckles into his arm, coming to the edge of the bank and sliding down into the water. “What were you talking about with her?” He asks.

Stiles instantly looks away from him, blushing. “Just—“ he sighs, pressing his palms into his eyes and sighing in exasperation, “just stay there.” He has to muster up the courage somehow, and Derek’s here now, and they’re far enough away that hopefully no one can hear them still. 

Derek looks unhappy, but he stills in the water nonetheless, shivering at the chill that creeps up his skin, puckering his flesh.

“Derek,” Stiles starts, looked past the man, over his shoulder, “I want to have sex,” he feels his cheeks heating up, feels his face go bright red, “with you.” He doesn’t even bother making eye contact, just stares past him, waiting for—whatever. The scent of Derek’s startled surprise reaches his nose, tickles the back of his throat—and there’s something else, something calming, like relief. 

Derek pulls at Stiles’ face gently, forcing his gaze on the other wolf before he slots their lips together. It’s dry and gentle, nothing more to it aside from a press of lips and ghosts of breath that leave Stiles feeling numb and gooey all over. “Okay,” Derek said softly, chuckling low in his chest, “whenever you’re ready.”

The atmosphere around Derek seems lighter, relieved. “What was wrong, before?” Stiles asked, pulling away slightly, but Derek continues to press dry kisses to his neck and collarbone, ignoring Stiles. “Derek?” He prompts, pinching his sides lightly, his brows furrowed in worry.

Derek sighs, rolling his eyes and looking sheepish. “I thought you were trying to get with my sister.”

“Are you serious!?” Stiles shoved at Derek’s shoulder, glaring playfully. “I mean, your sister’s hot like burning, but ew, _no_!”

Derek chuckles and shakes his head. But he’s happy, and that was all that matters to Stiles.

* * *

Stiles sniffed the air. It’s clean, like pine and wet-dirt, but the ever-present scent of motor-oil and engine-exhaust is always in the air, no matter how far they get away from the highways and cities.

Allison trots to his side, nipping playfully at his neck as she passes. Stiles yips at her, but she only huffs at him and shakes her head, grinning. Isaac comes up beside her, following after Laura and Boyd. Erica and Derek are at the front of the pack, being the best trackers. 

The pack’s been on the trail of a wounded deer for three miles now, though they haven’t found the deer itself yet. They’re not in any real rush to get to the wounded creature, and they’d rather all be cautious about these types of things—with the hunters and all. 

Stiles hang’s back slightly, watching everyone move in sync with each other. He does it too, unconsciously, and when he stops and talks to Laura about it, she laughs and kisses his cheek in such a sisterly manner that it almost curdles Stiles’ stomach. “You’re learning, pup.” She muses, then turns from him and leaps away. 

Derek stops, sniffing the air, and a second later, Erica is doing the same. They both turn to look at each other, and then they both take off in one direction, howling for the pack to follow. Stiles is the first to take off after Derek, and beside him is Laura. They’re the fastest in the group, while Boyd, Allison and Isaac have the strength and bite force of maybe a whole army combined.

The deer comes into view, limping slightly towards a thinned river. It turns it’s head towards the pack, but already Stiles and Laura are there, nipping at it’s heels and flanks, while Derek and Erica make sure it’s escapes are cut off. Allison’s at their side in an instant, leaping past Derek and sinking teeth into the deer’s neck while Boyd barrels down on it’s back, pulling it to the ground soundlessly. 

The pack devour their shares quickly, licking the blood from each other’s muzzles. They moves on soon enough, leaving the boney carcass to feed the others that inhabited the forest. Stiles places a bloody hand on the deer’s torn apart ribcage and silently thanks the deer for its meat. 

Over the next few days, the pack helps Allison and Stiles with their hunting technique’s, and while both proved to be rather efficient hunters, they still have a few things to work on. Soon enough though, the two of them are pulling down a five-point buck by themselves.

Laura feels giddy with pride. Erica whistles low, hands on her hips. Boyd only grins. Isaac smirks, shaking his head. Derek praises his mate, offers him the tender bits of meat as Laura yipped happily at them both, playfully licking their muzzles as her show of appreciation.

* * *

_September_

John weakly walks out of his room, clutching at the doorframe as he catches his breath, gulping down the fresh air greedily. His skin feels too big, and every slow step makes him feel more and more nauseous. He clutches at the wall with his too wide hands, feels his stomach give a warning lurch, but he presses on.

He feels sick to his stomach, weak in all his joints in a way that only elderly men should. His upper lip feels wet. He wipes his sleeve under his nose, draws his hand back when he sees the red smear stain his grey shirt. He stares at the bloodstain, wonders when that started, then moves on at a turtles-pace.

He’d been calling for Stiles and Allison for the past hour, but neither came to him. And Goddamnit, he missed his children, he missed them so much, and it was enough that Kate took care of them, but he couldn’t stay in the room anymore. He wasn’t going to die in that room like Claudia did. He wouldn’t allow himself.

He stutters down the stairs, wheezing as he goes and pausing when he need to. He coughs wetly into his hands and has to take a moment to catch his breath before he continued into the kitchen. The lights are off, which makes sense since it’s daytime, but no one is home, which doesn’t make sense. The kitchen is bare of any fruit, which is something Stiles would never allow—but then again, Kate had complained that they never ate the fruit fast enough before the fruit flies broke into their house. Allison’s jacket isn’t by the door, where it normally is year-round. The lacrosse gym bag Stiles normally leaves by the dog is gone, too. John feels the worry work it’s way into his weak bones. 

The messages on his phone beep at him, alerting him to some missed calls that apparently require his attention. He stumbled over to the phone, hits the voicemail button and sits at the counter, rubbing his knees tenderly. 

The first message is from Scott, and it’s over a month old. _”Hey John, I haven’t seen Stiles around lately. Hope you’re okay. Call me when you see him, or tell him to call me. We’re all pretty worried about you…_

John grins, deletes the message and shakes his head. Scott’s always been a good kid. The Sheriff smiles, because he knows that since he’s been sick, Stiles at least had Allison and Scott to lean on and comfort him. 

Looking around, John wonders where Kate is. Huh.

The next message chimed in, another from Scott. _“John, it’s been a week. I don’t know if Kate told you, but Stiles and Allison are missing. Do you know where they went?” ___

John frowns down at his phone, replays the message before he deletes it and pauses. Maybe he should call Kate. His kids can’t be missing, maybe the three of them just got into a bit of a fight and Allison and Stiles were hiding away from Scott.

The next message chimes in, this one from Lydia Marin, which was news to the Sheriff—when did she even get his number?

_“Mr. Stilinski, it’s Lydia Martin. I go to school with Allison and Stiles. I think there’s something going on at your house that they haven’t told you about, but I’m not your kids, so I’ll tell you. Stiles has a split lip and bruises all over him and Allison got a shiner the size of Kate’s fist. We’ve tried their cells, but we can’t get ahold of either of them, and Scott is freaking out. I just assumed that harpy stepmother of theirs took them from you. John, I hope she’s listening, because as soon as Allison and Stiles get back to Beacon Hills, I’ll inform her that Jackson’s father is a lawyer, and we will take her down. You guys need to get out of there. Call me.”_

John plays the message over and over, his gut clenching uncomfortably at the claims Lydia makes. What is she even talking about? He feels a heavy weight in his stomach, guilt roiling around in his abdomen like poison. What happened to his children while he was laid up in his room?

Another message chimes in, playing automatically. _“Hey Sheriff, it’s Parrish. Kate filed a missing persons report for your kids. We, uh, we haven’t heard from you in a while, and we know you’re on sick leave, but we were hoping to talk to you, privately, away from Kate, you know. When you get the chance, call the station, okay?”_

That message is from a week and a half ago. John saves it, planning to call Parrish as soon as he can.

The last message is from Melissa, and hearing her voice is like listening to angel’s sing. _”Hey John, it’s, uh, it’s Melissa, Scott’s mom? Hey, listen, I don’t know if you know this or not, but Stiles and Allison haven’t been seen in nearly a month, and no one’s seen you in a while either, and we know you’re sick and all, but uhm, we wanted to come check up on you, but Kate wouldn’t let us in.”_ She sighs over the phone, her voice thick on the other end. _“Scott is loosing his mind, and I know that’s not your problem, but Kate is, well.”_ Melissa stops for a second and breathes. _“We saw Kate, with another man. I don’t want to put ideas in your head, but maybe you should talk to her, and I think I know why your kids went missing.”_ Melissa takes another deep breath, waiting. _“You should come over sometime, John.”_

John gets up from his seat and stumbles back on unsteady feet, his heart in his throat as he chokes on air that feels too hot, too heavy, too suffocating. That message is from yesterday, and _where the hell is Kate?_ John grabs his shoes and coat, forgoing the fact that he’s still in pajamas, and grabs his cruiser’s keys. His joints protest his quick movements, his stomach churning dangerously, and maybe because he’s more than just a little sick—and that’s what he gets fro being bedridden for four months. His head is moving a thousand miles a minute, because how could people assume that Kate is abusing his children—his children—his life?

But he remembers the first time he heard Stiles cry out downstairs, how it had startled him awake, and then Kate had walked into their room with blood on her knuckles and a smile a mile wide, urging him to rest. He’d thought nothing of it, figuring Stiles was injured and Kate was helping him.

His stomach gives a guilty churn, a terrible, terrible thought occurring to him.

Melissa would know what to do. So would Parrish.

* * *

Erica yawns tiredly into the crisp morning as she stretches and scratches the back of her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Today is the day, she thinks giddily, rubbing at her stomach fondly. Today’s the day she will tell Boyd she’s pregnant. Today’s the day she’ll tell Boyd she’s carrying his pups.

Today’s the day.

She nudges her mate, who sleeps at her side, kissing his muzzle until he wakes and drops his wolf-skin in favor of kissing Erica with human lips. 

“Baby?” He slurs as he rubs his eyes, clearing the crusted sleep from them. He kisses her again, nosing at her hairline.

Erica opens her mouth, smiles wide and says playfully; “guess what?”

Boyd smirks, laying his head back down on the cool ground. It’s just barely turning to fall, and soon the winter will be upon them, and the ground will be cold and hard. 

“What?” He asks, his eyes closing ever so slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he kisses her hand, twisting their fingers together.

“I’m pregnant!” Erica laughs as Boyd rolls to his feet, lifts her into the air and howls joyfully.

* * *

The Sheriff goes to the police station first, bracing himself against the front desk with weak knees and a heavy, angry heart. Marie, the receptionist, stares up at him for a moment before her eyes widened in shock. 

“You don’t know, do you?” She asks, and the Sheriff’s about to shake his head, before Parrish rounds the corner and herds him into a small office off to the side of the receptionist urgently, despite the squawks Marie calls after them.

“Parrish, what in God’s name—“

“Shh.” Parrish hisses, peeking out from behind the door, watching as a blonde woman, Kate, sashayed her way out of the station.

“What—?”

“Kate just came in to see if we’ve found any trace of the kids.” Parrish explains, but the Sheriff isn’t catching on to whatever the hell the Deputy is trying to say, in favor of trying to get past the other man to get to Kate. He’s got questions for her, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get them answered. 

Parrish pushes him back, slamming the door shut and stares at his boss. He sighs when John opens his mouth, pointing a pale finger at Parrish’s chest, seething angrily; “explain.”

“She comes in every day since she filed the report and asks questions. We’re still searching, Sheriff, we are, but she’s always distracting the case away from the children, trying to force us in different directions.”

“How?” 

“She tells us she finds some leads as to where the kids might be,” he holds up his hands, stopping the Sheriff from asking any questions before he gets the chance to finish, “she throws us some names, locations, dates that don’t make sense, and nothing adds up.” He’s frowning, and the Sheriff feels weak and twitchy, his bones ache and his stomach feels like acid. 

“She was angry when we found out she’d been lying to us, and I confronted her about it, but we can’t hold her on anything. Her lawyer’s keep bailing her out every time we do try to hold her.” He growls and the Sheriff’s blood runs cold.

“She’s a suspect.” He feels his lungs seize up, a lump form in his throat and he wants to vomit.

Parrish nods slowly, his eyes searching John’s. “She’s got alibis and contacts I bet God couldn’t even get ahold of.”

“Parrish.” The Sheriff whispers, his lips barely moving, his mouth dry and cotton-feeling, “where are my kids?”

Parrish looks wounded, gutted open, pulled apart and picked clean. “We don’t know, sir.”

* * *

Kate’s gone before John even gets back to the house. Her clothes are gone, along with a few things of his. She’d collected guns, or so she’d said, and they’re all gone too. 

John wants her caught and arrested, thrown in jail and tied to an electric chair. He get’s his Deputies and Highway Officer’s to search for her, but she’s already gone before the search even officially begins.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror, at his pale, hallow-cheeked face, his droopy eyes, his bloody nose—and he smashes the mirror to the ground, disgusted with himself.

When he looks up again, he’s met with the warm, photographic eyes of Claudia, staring down at him, and she reminds him that his kids are still gone.

* * *

Laura fidgets as she wakes the pack the next morning. Her gut feels wrong, tingles and flips uncomfortably. Her skins feels like it’s on fire, being pulled apart and rubbed against sand paper. 

“What is it?” Derek asks, and Laura can’t quite place the feeling. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just don’t feel right. I want to move.”

Erica grumbles unhappily, leaning into Boyd’s body. Allison and Stiles stick together between Isaac and Derek that whole day, moving quickly and quietly through the forest until they reach the state line sometime around noon.

* * *

The pack marches further north, taking refuge in the Redwood Forest as night falls around them like a blanket of darkness. 

Stiles sits in wonderment, staring up at the tall, foreboding, wise redwood trees, taking in the scent of old dirt and old bark, towering over everything Stiles has ever known. They’ve been there forever, and if he listens, he can hear them, their voices on the wind. They sound foreign and soft, speaking only to each other and to Stiles.

But the one sound that nearly drowns out the rest of the forest is the constant crying, soft and distant, full of sorrow and desperation.

He shifts to his human form, walks nude through the trees, his fingers touching the bark as he goes, feeling the life beneath his hand, swirling at their cores like fireflies. The dark sky pokes through the tops of the trees, letting in bits and pieces of the starry sky above. It’s a calming feeling, deep in the forest, his family—his chest tightened, because these people have grown into his family, but his real father could be dead—surrounding him.

He turns when he realizes he isn’t alone as he walks, and Laura comes up beside him, walking in stride. “Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, “did I wake you?”

She shakes her head, her wild, dark hair twisting with the motion. “I felt your restlessness all day, I figured you wouldn’t sleep much tonight.” She gives him a coy, sidelong glance, and walks ahead of him just slightly, bumping her hip against his as they cross a pointless little bridge in the middle of the forest—it’s obviously man-made, but it’s cute.

Stiles laughs absentmindedly, glancing back at their sleeping pack, huddled close for warmth. “What made you bite a bunch of ragtag teenagers anyways?” He ask.

Laura explains softly how Isaac was abused by his father after his mother and brother died in a car accident. Her eyes land on him pointedly, “it’s why he’s so attached to Allison, I think. But he needed an out, and Derek had watched him for a while, claimed he was a hard worker, so we took him in and we haven’t looked back since.”

She goes on to discuss how Boyd had come into the pack. “He blamed himself for his littler sisters death and distanced himself from reality,” Laura looks troubled, glances over at their dark-furred wolf, sleeping beside his light furred mate. “He had trouble deciphering reality from his dreams and his nightmares, so when we took him in, we helped him see that it wasn’t his fault before we bit him.” She frowns, “we’ve been wolves for a long time, so it’s easier for him to cope as a wolf than a human, and he’s still working on it, but he’s getting there.” Laura shrugs as if she’s not talking about Boyd’s psychologically damage and simply discussing the weather. “I adore the boy, but he was Derek’s choice, not mine. I’d have liked him to see a professional before coming to us, but Derek was admit we take him then, so I did.” 

“So basically, all your beta’s were products of Derek’s choices?” Stiles asks, smirking. Figures Derek would pick a ragtag bunch of broken teenagers with problems that would normally require professional help.

Laura nods though, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was fine, before, when it was just he and I. I mean, it hurt, loosing our family, but at some point, he forgave himself for what happened to us, and we needed a pack.”

Stiles is about to stop her and ask her what she’s talking about, but she waves his questions away. “I’ll get to that,” she says, then moves on to Erica. “She won’t tell you this, but she had epilepsy before the bite, and it was bad. We can smell death on a person,” she raps her nose, and Stiles remembers the first deer they’d hunted, the stench that rose from it that he now realizes indicated emanate death. “Erica was maybe two or three seizures away from a grand-mal, and she wouldn’t have woken up from it.” Laura frowns down at her hands, tries not to cry and bites out; “we fell in love with her, after talking to her for a few minutes. We didn’t know if the bite would take, Stiles, and you have to understand that sometimes it doesn’t.” Her eyes are hard, glossy and clear, flash red at him before she shakes her head and sighs. “So with Erica, it was almost a catch twenty-two. If the bite didn’t take, she was going to die anyways, so we were basically just speeding up the process.” She doesn’t meet Stiles’ eyes when she says, “I don’t think we could’ve handled more death.”

She and Stiles don’t talk for what feels like forever after that. Stiles’ head fills with subtle _what if’s?_ that eat away at his thoughts, crowding his already full mind. He pulls in a long, steady gulp of air, exhales deeply and closes his eyes.

Laura chuckles then, waving away the negativity. “Then we found you and Ally, and now we’re one big happy family!” She grins lopsidedly at him, and even though it doesn’t reach her eyes, it’s still infectious, and Stiles can’t help but smile back, his eyes drifting up to the canopy of leaves above his head.

“What about you and Derek?” Stiles asks, leaning against the railing of the bridge casually. “Were you guys born wolves or bitten?”

Laura smirks, “we were born wolves,” she leans back against the railing, facing him. Had Stiles been a straight man, he doesn’t know if he could’ve handled the amount of nudity that is Laura Hale. “Our mother was Alpha, our father her mate, and we had two other siblings, two uncles, two aunts, a few cousins, yadda yadda.” She flips her hand as if to dismiss the fact that they are all alone now. 

“So…” Stiles swallows, scenting Laura’s soft sadness, creeping in around the edges of her happiness. “What happened to them all?”

Laura purses her lips, rolling her neck around. “They died in a fire.”

“What?” Stiles bites his lip.

“Kate, your step-mother.” She nods at him, her words distasteful as she pointedly makes eye contact with him, and it’s in a way that’s not accessory, just sharp and angry. 

Stiles frowned at Laura, looking to the ground. He’s not going to like this conversation, and he can already feel it in his bones. 

“She and her family are hunters, have been for generations and generations. She was a substitute teacher at the high school Derek and I went to our senior year, and she seduced Derek.” The words taste foul in her mouth. “He fell in love with her, and he told her about our family. On the Harvest Moon, when we were all gathered for the celebration, Kate trapped them inside our family house and burned them alive.”

Stiles feels the bile rise in his stomach, feels the tightening, suffocating fear that builds in his chest, weighs as much as an anvil, and feels just as crushing. Laura pauses, waiting for Stiles’ heart to regain a normal rhythm again before she places a supportive hand on his neck, leans her forehead against his cheek gingerly. 

“So, Allison…” he begins, but Laura only nods slowly. “You’re _those_ Hales,” His voice is higher than expected, his throat still tight and raw from gulping in air. “How did you both survive?” He asks breathlessly.

Laura doesn’t move her head away from him, only lines up their bodies as Stiles wraps his arms around her. “The kids were out of juice, and mom and Derek had a fight because he wanted to bring Kate to the celebration and mom said no, so he and I went to the market and by the time we got back....” Laura’s smiling sadly against Stiles’ skin, he can feel it, then she shrugs, “it was a long time ago.” 

She pushes herself away from Stiles and leans back against the railing with him. He wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes to mind.

Her nails scratch into the wood beneath her hand, carving a triskelion into the railing with practiced ease. “To be honest, when Derek told me about you, how you smelled of her, we were ready to run from Beacon Hills and never come back, until we saw what she was doing to you and Allison.”

“You saw?” Stiles gulps, his skin feeling tight and anxious.

She nods. “We followed you one day, saw Kate lock you in the tool shed last summer, after she...” She gestures at Stiles face, the sting of Kate’s repeated swings burn into his memory like a fire that could burn down a small city.

He rubs his face, just to make sure there isn’t a handprint on his cheek, and sighs when Laura embraces him, holding him tight against her. 

“You could have killed her easily, Stiles, had you known what you were.” She whispers into his shoulder, and Stiles stiffens. Laura rubbed circles into his bareback. “You’re magic, Stiles, you always have been.”

“Magic?” Stiles asks, pulling away ever so slightly. It wasn’t the craziest thing he’d ever heard, but to think that _he_ was magic? It was almost too hard to believe—her was never that lucky.

“You’d have been a powerful Spark, had you not become a wolf.” Laura tells him, looking and smelling guilty. She rubs her forearm nervously. “I felt it, when I turned you.” She points at her mouth, smiling wide and showing her teeth. “You still have a great power within you, maybe more than me, but you haven’t learned to harness it.” 

“I’d like to.” He says hastily. If he can become just as powerful as Laura, he’d find Kate, and he probably wouldn’t be nice about it.

Laura smiles coyly, as is her nature, and pats his shoulder, soothing the rage that flows from him in waves. “We’ll find you a master one day, maybe, when you’re ready. But for now,” she motions for him to follow her as she begins walking towards their pack, “my brother needs his mate to sleep peacefully,” she giggles.

Stiles turns to look at his restless mate, watching as Derek rolls to his side, his paws outstretched, searching uselessly for the comfort that is Stiles, who should be sleeping beside him. He has an unhappy face, even in sleep, and Stiles has to stifle a laugh.

“Stiles?” Laura calls hesitantly.

Stiles turns towards her and she bites her lip nervously. “Just remember that magic is an extension of your will, okay?” 

Stiles cocks his head to the side, giving her a questionable look. Laura huffs. “Look, magic works as you want it to, but just remember that everything you do leaves a footprint.” She points at a the ground, “say an apple tree grew here, and you wanted the apple at the very top, so you willed your magic to get it for you, but that apple had a purpose: to grow the next apple tree.” She looks perplexed for a second, “the land remembers you, remembers your magic, and the next time you need something, it might not give it to you.” 

Stiles regards her carefully, but she touches the skin above his heart. “But say, you eat that apple, then plant the core in the ground when you’re finished. The land thanks you, even gives you gifts or provides extra assistance when the time comes. That’s how my mother explained it to me.” She smiles then, “always remember to give back to the earth what you take, and she will be forever in your debt.”

She moves then, circles her pack and makes sure everyone is okay before she settles in and closes her eyes. 

Stiles looks up at the trees, considers what Laura has told him about magic. He thinks more on it as he shifts back into his wolf-skin and trots over to Derek’s side, curling up around his mate.

He glances at Erica and Boyd. They’re tangled together with Boyd’s muzzle resting on her stomach. It was just that morning they’d heard the happy howl from Boyd when Erica had told him she was pregnant. A part of Stiles’ heartaches at the fact that he’ll never have that with Derek—never have a proper family—but at the same time, he almost doesn’t care, as long as he has Derek by his side.

* * *

“Your blood toxicology is back, sir.” The Medical Examiner says, frowning as she hands the paper to John with steely grey eyes. He glances at the paper, frowns, and hands it back to her with an exasperated sigh. 

“You’re gunna have to explain it to me.” He says, but he knows some of those words, knows he’s been eating poison from the hands of his wife for months now—it’s the only logical explanation. “In small words,” he adds, just in case.

The Examiner tries not to crack a smile, but it fails and she has to clear her throat before she can continue, giving him a sheepish look. “Well, you’ve been slowly poisoned over the course of a few months, sir, with aconite.” She frowns deeper, “it’s a miracle you’ve manage to live this long. Tough guy to kill, aren’t you, Sheriff?” She smirks, shaking her head as she turns back to her computer.

“Is it common?” He asks, and the woman turns to him with wide eyes.

“Women poisoning their husbands? I’ve heard of it, but not in Beacon Hills.” 

“I meant aconite.”

The woman visibly relaxes. “Yes and no. It says,” she points at the screen of her computer, “aconite grows in the mountains, along streams and in damp, shady fields. It can grow in gardens every three to ten years, but I haven’t seen any lately.” She shrugs, “not since Victoria died, at least.” She turns back to her desk, missing the way John stiffens at the mention of Victoria Argent. The Examiner continues with a beat. “Aconite is highly poisonous and can seriously harming the heart, muscles and nervous system.”

“So that explains the pain in every one of my muscles.” He rubs at his knees, feels them quack beneath his palms.

The woman nods, frowning again, turning back towards her computer with a list of information on the screen in a new tab. “Have you been experiencing any numbness of your fingers or feet, painful breathing, fever or any symptoms not normally affecting you?”

The Sheriff frowns, “yes to all of it.”

She sighs, pulling out her cell phone from one of the deep pockets on her white coat. “I’m going to call poison control and have your house swept for anything aconite related, and then I’m going to phone my sister.”

“Why your sister?”

“She’s a doctor in the city, I’ll see if she’s dealt with any aconite poisoning before and get some information out of her, then I’ll call your pharmacy and get you started on some medication to get you healthy again.” She nods towards the door, indicating she’s done with him, “we’ll have you back on your feet in no time, Sheriff.” She smiles sadly up at him, adding; “and we’ll do whatever we can to help you find your kids.”

* * *

Stiles paws at the placid water of the creek, sitting back on his haunches as he watches Allison and Isaac romp around in the water, playfully nipping at each other and yipping excitedly. Allison throws Isaac into the water then trots over to his side, flopping onto him, panting triumphantly. Stiles nudges her back, and she rolls off to the side, her hair dangling into the water as she shifts, stark naked and beautiful against the sunlight, a giggle already on her lip that blinds Stiles for a minute before she’s off, diving into the creek towards Isaac.

Derek trots up to Stiles’ side, nuzzling into his neck and licks at his human face. Stiles licks him back, quick and playfully, before he dips his head to the water again. Derek shifts beside him, leaning back onto the ground and staring up at the treetops with a grin on his face. 

“What is it?” Stiles ask as he lies back against Derek’s chest, finding a comfortable position between his legs. 

Derek hums at Stiles’ skin, kisses the back of his neck and nips at the cuff of his ear. “I’m happy.” He says, closing his eyes as he soaks up the sunlight. 

“Is that so?” Stiles muses. He turns to face Derek, pushing against Derek’s chest to make him lay completely flat, and Derek does so with a soft disgruntled grunt. Stiles smiles triumphantly down at him, places his torso over Derek’s, leaning his head into Derek’s neck and running a hand through his longer, darker hair. 

Derek hums again, enjoying the comfortable weight of Stiles looming over him and his fingers scraping over his scalp. “We’re heading up north, towards Canada.”

“Are we now?” Stiles chuckles atop him. “That sounds nice. What’s up there?” 

“Laura’s mate.” Derek grins. “Deucalion, and his pack.”

“Sounds nice.” Stiles grunts as Derek cradles him closer to his chest.

“I was thinking we could go further on, without the pack, if you’re up to it.” Derek says with a sly grin. 

Stiles bites his lip, smiling brightly. “I think we can do that.”

Derek leans forward and places a soft, chaste kiss on Stiles’ lips.

Later, when Stiles asks; “how long will it take us to get to Deucalion?” 

Erica just shrugs, scratching at the side of her face, her hand now permanently glued to her stomach, waiting for any sort of reaction from the baby. “Depends on how many detours we take.” She smiles, flashes him her best grin. “Laura and Derek both have the worst case of wanderlust I’ve ever seen.” 

“Do not,” Derek says as he jogs past them, on no particular path but just to simply expel some extra energy.

Stiles hums happily. Allison bumps her hip against his, and Isaac trots up to her side. The two of them have been pretty inseparable since Stiles and her were bitten, and even if he’d preferred Allison marry Scott so that he and Stiles could be actual brothers, Isaac doesn’t seem like too bad a guy—in fact, he’s a lot like Scott, in the sense that he’s loyal to a fault and completely in love with Allison. He smirks, thinking about Scott, then has to take a deep breath for a second and pause to settle his stuttering heart and plummeting gut.

Derek turns back to him and gives him a puzzled look, but Stiles waves his concern off.

“Before you got here, we were moving every night to some new place. We’ve slowed down quite a bit,” Laura says at his other side, surprising her beta into a startled fit of laughter. Laura smirks at him, but adds; “we like to move slower with our new members, just so you get used to our pace.” She shrugs, watching as Boyd appears from a bush with the body of a dead deer in his jaws, tugging the creature free of a branch before appearing in the clearing. He’s been hunting more and more often, making sure Erica has enough to eat.

Erica’s smile is wide and anxious—she looks hunger, and Stiles had learned not to come near her when she was really hungry.

Boyd lugs the dead creature into the clearing then pauses, glances at his pack-mates who have all stopped to stare at him for a moment. “What?” He asks innocently, dropping his wolf-skin, “she was hungry,” he offers as way of explanation, eyebrows going up as he nods towards Erica.

“You’re the best, baby.” The blonde places a kiss on Boyd’s ebony cheek, and he only grins at her, pulling her into his arms.

Laura laughs first, loud and full of love. “Okay,” she says as she calms down, “I think a bit of cooked deer sounds good tonight.” She looks up at the treetops, “we have a bit of cover, it might be nice to sit around a fire, too.”

“Oh, are we actually gunna have cooked meat for a change?” Allison jests, and Isaac giggles at her side, muttering something about pregnant woman.

Erica huffs at them, licks her lips absently, her eyes moving towards Derek.

He rolls his eyes and picks the deer up, lifting it up over his shoulders, gesturing for Boyd to follow. “We’ll gut and clean it then,” he offers, then smirks at Stiles.

“I wish we had some seasonings,” Stiles licks his lips, picking up some sticks to start a fire, placing them in a pyre-like structure.

“A man after my own heart.” Boyd inclines his brow at Stiles with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Derek grumbles unhappily at Stiles side, but Stiles only chuckled and brushed his hand against Derek’s. “Don’t worry, you’re the only wolf for me.”

Derek kisses his wrist and smiles, and it still takes Stiles’ breath away.

* * *

Lydia sighs softly. She looks up at the notes on the board, then back at the blank pad of paper in front of her. She can’t seem to absorb anything today, and maybe it’s because it’s been a month, almost two, and no one’s seen Allison or Stiles anywhere, and she’s tired of being tired.

John has his job back, and while Lydia is ecstatic to see the older man back on his feet and moving about, it still tears her heart to pieces knowing that Stiles and Allison are gone. And that Kate is on the run, and no one can seem to locate her either.

Lydia doesn’t realize until her pencil snaps in half how tight her grip had been. 

Jackson raises a brow at her, his features hard in a way they haven’t been all summer. She knows this look, knows it means there’s a coming argument to be had.

“You’re thinking again.” He whispers, avoiding Harris’ harsh gaze as he turns to them, then back to the board.

“That’s what intelligent people do, Jackson.” She bites back, glaring at him.

Jackson scoffs, shakes his head and turns back to his notes. He hands her his pencil, avoids touching her completely. Whatever. His notes can’t even really be classified as notes, but _whatever_. Lydia knows where this fight will lead to, but then again, she’s tired. She’s _tired_ of being _tired_ , and Jackson in and of himself is _trying_. 

“I think we should talk after class.” Jackson says in a biting tone, his neck straining, and Lydia rolls her eyes, exasperated.

“Whatever.”

* * *

“It’s been a month, sir.” Parrish says cautiously, stepping into John’s office with a tentative posture.

John wants to rip the man apart, piece-by-piece. He can feel his temper rising to a boiling point. People need to stop reminding him how long his children have been gone. He’s been back in his office for just barely a weeks, finally cured of his aconite poisoning and having finally found the stomach to go back to his house—his own house—without Allison or Stiles there to fill the silence that needs to be filled, somehow.

His stomach roils at the thought of going into his room, where he had lain sick for so long while his children suffered at the hands of that—that _woman_ , if she could even be called that. God, she’s a monster. The thought of her makes John want to vomit all over himself, makes him want to scrub his skin raw, then keep scrubbing, just to get her poisonous talons out of his pores. 

He sleeps on the couch until he can afford a new mattress, new sheets and new clothes. Her scent is leached into everything he owns. He sleeps with the windows open, because that’s the only way to air out the house.

“I’m won’t stop looking for them.” The Sheriff says, turning back to the paperwork laid out for him on his desk. He picks up a pen and signs something, whatever it is, because it requires his signature and he’s the Sheriff—not some victim.

Parrish wants to speak again, wants to clarify that he isn’t suggesting they stop looking, not at all, but all that comes out is a sigh. He nods his head after a moment and turns and leaves the Sheriff’s office, closing the door behind him softly.

* * *

_October_

A week passes between the official decree that the pack is moving up to Canada towards Deucalion, and it passes pretty efficiently. Laura tells Allison and Stiles about Mountain Ash and Aconite, even finds some of the prettiest flowers Stiles’ has ever seen down by a damp riverbed.

“Don’t go near it,” she warns and Stiles bulks, because the flowers are so pretty, he _wants_ to touch them all, “it’s really pretty much the only thing that can kill us,” she shakes her head, reaches out to point at the flowers, “it’s a slow death, and it’s very painful.” She makes to move towards Stiles. 

“There are many things we need to teach you both, but for the most part, you just need to know that we can’t cross Mountain Ash, and we can die from Aconite, in pretty much any form it comes in. Got it?”

Stiles and Allison both nod slowly. Though, Allison looks distraught and smells sad and confused, and when Stiles bumps his shoulder against hers, asking what’s wrong with a show of his eyebrows and facial expressions, she only frowns and looks lost.

“My mom used to grow aconite, though I didn’t know what it was when I was younger.” She says, softly, staring intently at the flower, as if trying to memorize every last detail about it. “Why would my mom grow something like this?”

Stiles gulps, and looks over towards Laura, who looks just as guilty and motions for them to follow her. Laura takes them aside and explains that the Argent family is known for hunting werewolves. It’s instant then, and Stiles watches the switches click in Allison’s mind. She has to stop herself from crying several times when Laura mentions the fire that consumed her entire family, expect her and Derek—and how it was Kate who’d done it.

Derek doesn’t even bother to make eye contact with anyone for the rest of the night.

“Aconite,” Allison whimpers, “my mom was a botanist,” she laughs bitterly, “she was working with aconite one day when she came home and claimed that she’d been bitten by a stray dog,” Laura winces, and Allison’s laugh turns more harsh, her eyes red with tears and anger that bubble forth like lava from an angry volcano. “I remember the look my dad gave her, and the way Kate looked at her—like she _knew_ , God she looked so cocky.” She snarls, sounding disgusted, then turns away and runs off into the forest, exchanging her human skin for wolf fur. Isaac follows after her, his sadness hanging in the air like a noose.

Laura puts a strong hand on Stiles’ shoulder and smiles weakly at him. “She needs to deal with a few things. She basically just leaned that her family hunts what she now is, and we knew about it all along.”

“Do you think she feels a little betrayed?” Stiles asks, his voice soft.

Laura nods, shrugs, but her lips are turned down in a concerned, motherly manner, “yeah, maybe a little.” She bites her lip nervously, “I mean, we did know she was an Argent before she knew exactly what she was getting into by accepting the bite, right?”

Isaac brings Allison back to the pack after a few hours. Laura perks up, looking shy and crushed when she sees Allison making a beeline for her. 

“Allison—“ Laura pleads, but she walks right up to Laura and brings her into a rib-crushing embrace, her arms wound around their Alpha tighter than a python. 

“Thank you, for everything.” She says, and Laura relaxes, pats her back soothingly, smiling into her dark hair. That’s enough for now, she thinks.

* * *

Scott stares at the old abandoned house, his eyes red-rimmed and angry. Stiles had hid here once, after Kate had slapped him the first time and stared him down like an animal, right after John had started getting sicker—they’d thought it was just a cold gone wrong, but now they know. 

Scott remembers finding Stiles here and taking him back to his house for a whole weekend, before the Sheriff had shown up and taken him home, nose dripping and eye puffy, and apparently completely oblivious to the fingertip shaped bruises gripping his sons upper arm. 

It’s been a month and a half since his girlfriend and his best friend disappeared.

He walks inside the burnt down shell of the house and looks for any sign of life. A note, a letter, anything for Scott to trace Stiles to, but there isn’t a single piece of evidence that could offer any help—any solace to this never-ending nightmare Scott feels like he’s trapped in.

He screams his frustrations at the house, beats his fists against the rotted doors angrily.

But then he sees it. It’s a door open to a cellar, far off towards the end of whatever room he’s in. He runs towards it, ripping the door up and staring inside, desperately hoping that a half-starved Stiles and Allison have been hiding down there. 

“Stiles?!” He calls down, but he doesn’t get an answer back. “Allison…?” He cautiously climbs down, staring down at the floor every step he takes, weary of stepping on a rotted step and being stranded down in the dark for god only knows how long. 

He jumps the last two steps and lands hard on the ground. He flicks the light on his phone, holds it up and surveys the area. His eyes adjust slowly, picking up objects and colors that brighten with the light and look less ominous. There, on the floor, is Stiles’ red hoodie, amongst what looks like Allison’s blouse, a leather jacket, and five or six other pairs of clothes.

His breath catches in his throat as he runs to the bags, touching them gingerly, as if they’re only a mirage. 

Scott sobs into his hand, willing the hot tears that roll down his cheeks to disappear, but they just keep rolling. Stiles bag is buried under the clothes, and Scott searches through it, pulling the wallet and cell phone free. The screen is cracked from when Stiles dropped it during lacrosse practice, but now the cracks harbor particles of dirt that clump together on the screen. Scott pulls Stiles’ ID free of his wallet and casts the wallet back into the pile. 

If this is the only thing he has left of Stiles, so be it. Scott takes out his own wallet and shoves Stiles’ ID behind his, staring at the picture of his lost best friend before sticking the wallet back in his pocket and climbing back up the steps of the cellar.

* * *

The pack marches on, reaching the border of Canada within the next few weeks. Canada’s colder than Stiles had expected, but it’s a nice change for his winter coat.

“Deucalion’s pack is about as big as ours,” Derek explains to Allison and Stiles before they arrive, “but they don’t like to travel as much as we do. They stay in Canada for the most part. We’re more of a nomadic pack. But Laura always comes back to Deucalion, and our packs are really just one big one, even if Laura says we aren’t.” 

Deucalion is nice. He’s blind, for a wolf, but his other senses make up for it. He meets them all outside of a farming community with two other identical wolves, and when they shift, Stiles realizes they’re twins. 

Laura kisses her mate quickly, nuzzling the spaces between his shoulder and neck, scenting his skin and humming happily. “I missed you,” she whispers, and Deucalion wraps his arms around her, holding her close to him and scenting her face and neck. 

Stiles nods towards the twins, but Deucalion is the one who catches his eye—not really, because he’s blind, but he stares in the direction of Stiles and Allison, sniffing the air attentively. “You have two new pups.” He says softly, and Laura nods seriously. 

“My brothers mate, and his sister.” 

“They don’t smell related.”

“Through marriage.”

“Ah.” Deucalion grins, extends his hand towards Stiles as if he were a seeing-man, and says gently, “welcome to the pack, Derek’s mate.”

Stiles smiles weakly, shakes the other Alpha’s hand. “Stiles,” he introduces himself eagerly, and Allison comes up beside him as Deucalion extends his hand to her.

“Allison,” she says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She doesn’t trust him. Stiles wonders why, but he doesn’t ask. 

“Good to meet you both, now come, you must all be famished.” He wraps his arms around Laura and leads them all away.

Derek strides beside Stiles as they make their way through a cornfield, which covers the group’s nudity from the watchful eyes of the human world. The corn stalks creak as the group make their way through them, but for the most part, the wolves are all silent, listening to the world around them buzz with life. Derek keeps Stiles to his side as they flank off to Laura’s right, while the twins cover Deucalion’s left. Boyd holds Erica’s hand, keeping her close to him, and Allison curls herself around Isaac. Her eyes are watchful, distrusting of Deucalion and his betas. 

“We’ll have a nice dinner, get you all some clothes, maybe have a nice run when the full moon comes in a few days, perhaps?” Deucalion offers, and Laura giggles like a schoolgirl, nodding her head eagerly.

“You think we can get Jennifer to make us the strawberry-rhubarb pie?” Erica asks, and Boyd rolls his eyes fondly.

“I’m sure we can.” Deucalion’s lips curl back to expose his teeth and Stiles cringes at the way it makes his stomach flip. 

“That sounds nice,” Laura offers, turning to look at the rest of her pack for confirmation. Derek and Stiles nod, though Stiles emits a brief, fleeting scent of nervousness before it vanishes. 

Derek turns to him then, an eyebrow raised curiously, but Stiles turns back towards Allison, who has her head bowed, her scent full of worry and discomfort. Her first full moon with the pack hadn’t been that easy for her, and she just worries she’ll attack someone like she had done to Erica. Even now, the blonde is still somewhat weary of Allison, being pregnant and in a constant state of weakness and worry for her unborn pup.

Allison had yet to find her anchor, and while it was dangerous for Stiles to pick a person over anything else, Derek is a strong anchor. Allison could choose Isaac as her anchor, but she doesn’t want that to hinder her control, and Stiles had understood her point, but had shrugged, encouraging her to keep searching.

Deucalion softly asks if they’re all right, and Allison shakes her head. Isaac coos at her, and Stiles releases Derek and goes to her side, holding her back as the pack continues walking, albeit slightly slower and with one ear pulled back towards them.

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, but Allison doesn’t lift her head. “Ally,” he whispers roughly, “Please?”

Allison slowly raises her head, tears falling over the brim of her eyes. Stiles brings her into a tight embrace, pulling her flush against him. “We don’t have to go out during the full moon.” He says quickly, “we can stay here, in the field, if you want, or hell, Ally,” he buries his face in her neck, scenting her and trying to comfort her like he did all those nights she used to sneak into his room and cuddle up with him. “We can go back to the forest and wait it out.” He supplies, then softer, he whispers, “we don’t have to go anywhere until you feel safe and we can find you an anchor.”

Allison nods, her arms encircling him tightly against her breast. 

Deucalion doesn’t ask any questions once they get to the house, and Stiles is grateful for that, even when Derek flutters around them nervously and Isaac curls himself around Allison in an attempt to make her smile again.

She does, later on in the night, and once everyone around her is asleep.

* * *

Kate drives to the vet’s clinic for the first time in weeks, anticipation building low in her stomach. She throws her truck in park and climbs out, pulling the ball cap down over her eyes in an attempt to keep her identity concealed. Her gun is strapped to her back, beneath her jacket, and she’s got enough ammo and knives on her to keep her identity concealed. 

This is the first time she’s been back in Beacon Hills since she left the second time, and this would be her last visit if she’s lucky enough—and avoiding the Deputies on the road is easy enough, so she should be able to make one last clean get-away. 

She goes around back and raps on the metal door, glancing around the dark alleyways just in case, waiting for the door to swing open.

“My, my,” Deaton opens after a third time knocking, and stares down at her, unamused. “Can I help you, Mrs. Argent?”

“It’s still Mrs. Stilinski, as far as you know.” Kate corrects, rolling her eyes as she barrels past him rudely.

Deaton scoffs, moving out of her way. “Please, come in.” He mutters under his breath. Kate throws his a smug smile.

“I thought you’d have given up that name after you left this town.” Deaton rounds his desk, takes a seat after he makes sure his protection ward is still powerful enough to hold off a human with some very bad intentions.

“Oh, cut the crap, Alan.” She scans the area, glances out the window of his office and back into the lobby, her hand behind her back and always on her gun, just in case. “Is anyone here?”

“Well, unless you count the fifteen or so cats and dogs in the next room, then no.” He scoops up his paperwork and pushes his glasses up onto his nose once more, shuffling the papers into a neat deck. “What can I do for you?” He asks, sighing exasperatedly.

“Have they found the kids?”

Deaton looks up from the folder, stares at her for a long time. “What concern is that of yours?” He asks slowly, deliberately drawing out every word.

Kate scoffs, rolls her eyes like he doesn’t know. She places a firm finger on his desk, making her point known. “There are werewolves in this forest, Deaton, and need I remind you what that means? Let alone a Banshee child, a Kanima boy without a handler who’s seemingly fled to London, a Witch, and God knows whatever else in this town.” She motions at Deaton himself. “You’re a goddamn Emissary, so don’t try to play coy.”

Deaton rises from his seat and glares at Kate. “Those wolves are the remaining Hales, who are under my protection, and of which you have murdered most of them in cold-blood.” He says pointedly, glaring at her. “You may be a hunter, but Beacon Hills is mine to protect, and unless you are here to turn yourself in, I’d recommend you leave,” he says, pointing at the metal door, _“now,”_ he adds in a deeper voice.

Kate just stares at him for a moment, before scoffing and raising her hands in defeat. “For someone who is supposedly neutral in all this,” she motions around her, as if the clarify her point, “you seem awfully invested in letting those _things_ roam free and kill people.”

Deaton sits back down, turns to his paperwork once more, “and _you_ seem awfully keen on continually tipping the balance,” he looks up at her as she makes her way towards to door to leave, already planning her exit strategy. “Need I remind you what it did to your father, after he had the Hales’ burned alive?”

Kate pauses at the door, looking over her shoulder. Her eyes are steely blue, but terror lies within them, and Deaton knows why. “Cancer kills everyone.”

Deaton gives her a pointed look, his lips curling back into a wicked smile. “What happened to him wasn’t caused by any type of cancer I’ve ever seen. The land remembers everything, Katherine, and you’d do well to remember that, too.”

* * *

The full moon comes and goes, and the forest freezes under their paws. Stiles and Allison meet the rest of Deucalion’s pack, and though in another life, they’d be a force to reckon with, they all seem rather decent. 

Kali and her mate, Jennifer, who isn’t a wolf, but something magical and wonderful, lie in the sun most days and are never more than an arms length apart. Jennifer’s touch sparks on Kali’s skin, and it’s the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen. Kali is abrasive sometimes, her words cut like knives and sting just as much, but she’s compassionate and righteous. Jennifer is all soft edges and gentle smiles. She smells like honey and spice, and her voice is a soothing ripple in a cool pond. Besides that, she makes a killed strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Deucalion and Laura don’t leave their bedroom for the first few days, but that’s understandable. Sometimes they argue, because despite them being mates, Laura refuses to merge their packs into one, and Stiles understands that too. So does Derek and the rest of both packs, but Deucalion doesn’t, and eventually he lets it drop. It’s easy to see the way it eats away at him to not have his mate within his reach all the time, like Kali and Jennifer. Deucalion is envious of the two woman, but Laura won’t be tied down to a single place ever again—and Stiles can see the fear Laura has about being caged in a house; the fear that someone could find her whenever they wanted and burn her and her pack alive in a house that she’s confined to. 

Ennis is Ennis. He’s crass and invasive and massive and smirks like he knows all the secrets and his laugh is cruel and dark and low. He hides within the barn on Deucalion’s property, keeping to himself for mostly the entire day until late at night, when he approaches Deucalion and whispers so low that even Laura can’t hear what he’s saying. When he does appear, he smells cigarette smoke and someone else, like someone splashed him with anger and tears and hate; like someone wild, caught in a trap and struggling for freedom. Stiles doesn’t understand it, and Laura avoids him like a plague, but she keeps her mouth shut about it around Deucalion for fear of upsetting him.

Ethan watches Stiles and Derek, his scent envious and treacherous, but not as much as his brothers, Aiden. He keeps far away from Derek most days, doesn’t bother to be in the same room when Derek is near, and Stiles doesn’t bother asking why, just accepts that sometimes there is bad blood, even within werewolf packs.

Derek and Stiles run in the forest, make out against trees and rut against each other like wild animals in heat, until one day they spy another wolf, Ethan, not far off, watching them hungrily. Derek chases him off with a feral growl, but Stiles calls his mate back and giggles, secretly thrilled they’ve been caught, but he’d never tell anyone. Derek takes his time spreading Stiles open and filling him up with his seed, and if Stiles catches Ethan rubbing himself off not too far off from them, he doesn’t say anything to Derek, and Derek is too busy burying himself in Stiles to care about much after that, pushing Stiles to the edge of his own orgasm and beyond.

Ethan doesn’t say much on those days, not to Derek or Stiles, at least.

Erica and Boyd mostly reside in their wolf skin, patrolling the woods and bathing in the frigid streams near by. They disappear sometimes, but they always come back, nipping at each other’s heels playfully. Erica and Stiles grow closer and closer as the time passes on Deucalion’s ranch, and Stiles finally get’s Erica to tell him about her life before the bite, and mostly about her Epilepsy.

“You know, Julius Caesar had seizures too,” Stiles says once evening, talking to Erica softly over a cup of moonlit tea. She’d been complaining about acid-reflux all day, so Stiles had brewed her a cup of tea like his mother used to.

“Yeah?” She smiles absently, but her interest is perked ever so slightly.

“They called it the Falling Sickness, sometimes, other times it was called the Sacred Disease.”

“Why’s that?” She asks, fully turning towards him. Derek turns too, seemingly interested. Boyd pretends to ignore the conversation, but it is evident by the slight turn of his ear that he, too, is listening. Deucalion rounds the corner with a beers in his hand for the members of the small group, gathered on his porch in various stages of relaxation.

“Supposedly Hercules suffered from Epilepsy when he went mad and killed his wife and children. Caesar too.” Stiles takes the beer from the Alpha, smiles in thanks and turns back to Erica, “Alexander the Great, Socrates, Caligula, and Saul, King of the Israelites, they all had Epilepsy. The ancients attributed it to a magical presence or a divine connections.” He says easily, as if reciting a poem, taking a slow sip from the wolfsbane enhanced beer, cringing at the slight sting that rushes down his throat.

“I’ve heard those stories,” Deucalion chuckles, and Stiles tips his beer to the man, knows he can’t see it, but everyone else can. “The stories say when Hercules suffered his seizures, Lussa, the Goddess of Madness entered his body and created his rage.” Stiles nods, but then sets his beer down and gestures wildly around him, excited.

“Yep, exactly, and that’s why it was called the Sacred Disease and connected to the divine.” He inclines his brow at Erica, “it made Epilepsy a type of possession by the gods and all that jazz.”

“But that God that possessed Hercules, Lussa, right?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods, motioning for him to continue, “you said she basically induced his rage, which caused him to kill his family, right? How is that good?” He shakes his head like he doesn’t understand, and Stiles can understand that, but he and Lydia had talked this out and lengths—and then suddenly he misses Lydia, and grows sad and solemn. Derek looks at him questionably, but Stiles waves it away as he continues.

“Hercules was the exception. Not all possessions were seen as bad things, just a warning or a need to be cleansed, so you were receiving notice from the Gods.” Stiles shrugs, his mind fluttering between the last memories he had of Lydia—and oh god, Scott. He left Scott alone too, and now he’s sure his dad is dead, but that guilt is fleeting. His dad was dying and there was nothing he could do about that. Scott though, Scott must be heartbroken.

Deucalion leans back in his chair, smirking, gaining Stiles’ attention once more and pulling him from his suddenly growing hole of desperation. “The God Apollo possessed the Pythian Priestess when she made the prediction about the exile and rebirth of the human race.” Stiles high-fives Deucalion with a smirk, muttering; “that’s what I’m takin’ about,” before turning to Erica once more.

“So, beautiful, what were you needing to be cleansed of?”

Erica smirks, flipping her hair over her shoulders, eyeing him carefully. She doesn’t answer, and Stiles doesn’t push it, only takes her hand in his and squeezes, trying to drown his own sense of impending despair.

Later, when Derek asks what happened to Stiles during their discussion, why his scent suddenly changed, Stiles will begin to weep. “I miss my dad,” he’ll say around the tears falling down his cheek and the shortness of breath falling from his lips. He’ll being to panic, and then he’ll look at Derek like he’s a forign object, like he’s far away and Stiles can’t make him out no matter how many times he tries to catch his breath or blink away the fog in his eyes.

“Stiles!” Derek will call, touching his mate tenderly, “Stiles, can you hear me? You need to breathe!” 

Allison will jump from the window on the second story level and shove Derek out of the way and hold a hand over Stiles’ mouth and nose, cutting off his breathing. Derek will panic and try to pry her off Stiles so he can breathe, but Allison will swipe a clawed hand over Derek’s chest and snarl with all a werewolf’s anger, flashing her eyes threateningly.

Derek will stumble back and hold his bleeding chest as the wounds heal, watching as Allison covers Stiles nose and mouth again, watching the realization dawn in Stiles’ eyes as he fights for air, fights for breath and throws Allison from him, gasping and wiping his face as he gulps air greedily.

When she rolls herself to her feet and walks over to Stiles, she sees the way his eyes flash blindly at her, the snarl pulled back on his face. She offers her hands, held out in front of her like they haven’t ever ripped into the chest cavity of a wild horse and pulled out its beating heart. She’ll curl herself around Stiles pliantly, shushing him when he growls lowly in his chest. 

Derek slowly approaches, his wounds healed and a question burning on his lips, but Allison knows him best—knows him better than Derek thinks.

“Stiles used to have panic attacks when he was little, after his mom died. They lasted all the way until the bite, got worse with Kate around.” She shushes Stiles when he starts to whimper at the mention of their stepmother. She cards her fingers through Stiles hair, pulls him closer to her, buries his face in her neck and lets him breath in her scent like it’s a drug. “We tried everything, you have to understand that Derek,” she shakes her head, “but he always starts breathing again when he has to fight for it.”

Derek nods slowly, because he knows what it’s like to have everything ripped out from under you. Allison’s eyes linger on him thoughtfully. “The attacks take a lot out of him. Take him to bed.” She makes Stiles stand, pushes him into Derek’s chest, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry about your shirt.” She whispers, and turns towards the door, her hand brushing over Stiles’ neck as she goes. 

The pack is there, having been drawn in by the sounds of Allison’s snarl, the scent of blood and Stiles’ cries and erratic heartbeat. She pauses, guilt falling from her in waves, before she walks past them all and grabs Isaac’s hand, leading him upstairs to their room.

Derek stays outside with Stiles, sitting down in the grass and pulling the smaller man into his lap. They stay out all night, staring up at the new moon and the stars that blot out as the sun rises and the new dawn comes.

Ennis watches from the barn, snuffing out a cigarette with the toe of his shoe before he disappears back inside the barn, having had enough of this drama for the night. He smirks when he closes the barn doors behind him.

* * *

Melissa asks him out first, and they meet at the back of the only decent diner in town. They slide into the booth together, sitting across from each other and talking quietly, reminiscing about old memories.

“Kate never liked you.” John laughs bitterly, and Melissa looks up at him, surprise etched in her features. “She was always jealous of you. But it was weird, not having you around all the time.” He shakes his head as if he’s disappointed in himself even more than he was before, “you and Claudia were as inseparable as the boys, and when I lost her, I still had you, you know? Then Kate came along, and I didn’t have anyone but her…” 

Melissa shakes her head, smiling sadly. Claudia had been her best friend, and John had too, through her. Claudia had asked Melissa to look after John and Stiles when she was gone, but she hadn’t—couldn’t—and now— _now,_ she feels like she’s failed Claudia’s dying wish. She looks down at her plate shamefully, absently pushing the food around with a fork. She doesn’t even really know what she’d ordered, but it doesn’t even look appetizing anymore. 

“If you need anything, John,” Melissa looks up from her plate and places a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezing affectionately into his muscles, “anything at all, just let Scott or I know.” She searches his eyes, keeping a steady hand on him. He looks older than she remembers him looking. “We care about you, you know.”

“Melissa, I—“ John croaks as he looks up at her earnest eyes and his heart moves to his throat. He struggles with words and gives up, surges forward and presses his lips against hers messily and holding her head in place. It’s wet, but not from their mouths. He pulls away too quickly, wiping at his eyes. “You’ve always been beautiful, Melissa. I wish I—“

“Shut up, John.” She laughs lights and pulls him back in, kisses him slowly, her hand resting on his prickly cheek. 

It’s enough, for now.

* * *

There is a wolf in the forest. 

His senses are sharper than he remembers, and he’s angry—so very, very angry. He’s searching a house, and it smells like the burnt flesh and ash of his daughter and wife, and he can remember, vividly, the way they’d called out for him as he tried to claw his way inside, but couldn’t move past the Mountain Ash.

He howls his misery, and he doesn’t remember them dying, doesn’t remember the sounds of their last screams after he was burned to the bone, but he remembers _her_ ; the monster that burned his daughter and wife alive, his sister and her husband, his cousins, his _family_.

He remembers her blonde hair and the cruelty in her laugh and the way her gun had smelled of wolfsbane and hatred, but most of all, and he remembers her scent, and that’s all he really needs.

* * *

Something tingles in Laura’s head, a constant sort of irritating buzz that intensifies as she pays it more attention. It has the same urgency to it as if to signify one of her pack mates is in trouble or emotional distress. 

She carefully sets aside her cooking utensils and looks over at Derek, curled around Stiles on the couch, both fast asleep and drooling with the blue light of the television glowing back at them in the dark. She turns to look over at Erica, laying on her back outside, talking lowly to a Boyd who has taken up his wolf-skin and laid his head on her stomach, listening to his offspring’s tiny hummingbird-like heartbeats.

“Hmm,” Laura stands then, searching for Allison and Isaac, but as she climbs the steps and hears the soft giggle of a breathy Allison, she knows they’re both fine and didn’t bother worrying about them. She scratches her head absently, humming softly to herself, thinking quietly before she shrugs and takes the stairs two at a time back towards the kitchen.

Maybe she’s just anticipating things.

* * *

_November_

The person behind the glass window in front of him blinks at him owlishly, before picking up the phone and holding the receiver to his ear. For a moment, the man doesn’t say anything, and neither does John. He used to be a painter, John remembers, Claudia used to love going to Argent’s Art Gallery and pining over his drawing—they were normally of a dark haired woman with fair skin and red eyes, and Claudia used to say, softly; _“he must really love her,”_ pointing at the curl of her smile, the length of her back, and the way the wolf in the background watched over her, protecting her as she bathed in a river, stark naked under a full moon. 

That was before Chris met Victoria and married her, then most of his paintings had changed to that of a fierce redheaded woman, always searching for the wolves in the woods, and Claudia had still loved Chris’ painting, but they weren’t as lovely, they weren’t as full of pain and want and love anymore—but something else entirely. 

“Is she dead?” The man asks, and the Sheriff doesn’t know whether to cry or scream, because Kate hasn’t been sighted in two months, and the children have been missing for three.

“We’re still searching for Allison,” he answers, and the man behind the glass grips the phone tighter, his knuckles going white with a fierce rage consuming his heart. He doesn’t hang up, but he puts the phone down in front of him and rubs his face between his palms almost violently, his shoulders shrinking and shaking. The Sheriff waits patiently, having felt that way when he’d realized that Stiles was—he wouldn’t accept the words, wouldn’t even think them— _missing._

He taps the glass, trying to gain the other man’s attention. “Chris,” he says softly, tapping again. The other father looks up at him, his eyes red rimmed and angry. He picks up the receiver and holds it to his ear reluctantly.

“You were supposed to protect her.” He snarls, his eyes wet, and John fights back the lump in his throat, fights back the burning sensation at the back of his eyes and swallows thickly.

“I need to know if you’ve heard anything from Kate lately.” He tugs on his oversized sleeves of his Sheriff’s jacket guiltily. He still hasn’t put on all his weight yet, so his old uniform is still somewhat baggy in areas. 

Chris stares at him coldly before his demeanor melts away and all that’s left is a sad old man. “When Victoria died,” he stumbles over the words, bites the inside of his cheek to keep his composure steady, because no one wants to find their wife at the bottom of their bathtub, “Kate was the only one home at the time.” 

That’s news to John. He straightens up, leaning forward, listening intently. “I didn’t kill my wife, John.” Chris says, his eyes steely and determined. “I loved Victoria, she and Allison are my world.” He stares straight at the other father, before repeating, “Kate was the only one home at the time, and I know why she did it, but I can’t—“ he pauses, sighs, “I can’t tell you _why_ she did it. Not yet.”

After the trial proving Chris had murdered Victoria by drowning her in the tub she was found in, Kate had been awarded custody of Allison, and John had been the arresting officer. They dated, then married, then after two years, John grew ill, and now his children are missing, or possibly—no.

As if loosing Claudia hadn’t been enough.

“Victoria used to grow aconite in her gardens,” John stifles his gasp with a stuttered cough, trying not to give himself away. First he hadn’t even heard of aconite until a few months ago, now it seems to be the center of everything. Chris continues with his story as if unfazed; “she knew they were poisonous, but, what can you tell a botanist, huh? That plant, John, that’s the key to everything.” He looks straight into the Sheriff’s eyes then, as if hinting that he needed to pay attention now. “Victoria came home one afternoon, she was bit by—by a _creature_ , and the bit did something to her.” Chris points at John then, his index finger jammed up against the glass. “You need to talk to Alan Deaton, the veterinarian.” He says, followed by; “it’s stupid, but I remember walking into the bathroom and the aconite being the first thing I smelled before I realized that Victoria was under the water and she wasn’t moving anymore.”

Chris’ eyes gloss over before he turns back to John, and John knows the other man is reliving the day his wife died, just like the Sheriff does.

Chris whispering lowly, bringing the Sheriff back to reality; “Kate worked with Victoria sometimes, when she was in between job, so she knows all about aconite.” He stares down at the ring finger on his left hand, folding rubbing the underside of the digit with his thumb. “I want you to test the bathtub Victoria was in, John, and I want you to tell me there wasn’t a single trace of aconite found in the water with her.”

John feels like crying all over again. None of this had been in the police file. None of this is making sense. “Why would I need to talk to Alan Deaton?” He asks cautiously.

Chris stares at him for a long time then, considering.

“Sheriff?” The officer beside him taps him on the shoulder softly. “Sir, we need to put the inmate back in his cell, but we’ll give you a few more minutes, okay?” 

John nods, but Christ is already standing, “Kate came by a few months ago, just before the kids went missing. She didn’t say anything, just smiled at me and left.” Chris shrugs, “Kate always got what she wanted when we were kids. She got Allison, she got Stiles, she got you, and she would’ve killed you, if she’d wanted.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just gets up slowly and hangs up the phone. John holds up a hand and Chris pauses, looking at him questionably. He raises the phone to his ear once more, waiting for John to speak.

“The woman in your paintings,” Chris visibly stiffens, “the one with the brown hair. Who was she?” He asks, and Chris stares at him for a long time.

“My first love.” He says simply and let’s the guards escort him away.

* * *

The sun feels nice on his skin, despite the edge of winter creeping in subtly through the fall breeze. “How long do we plan to stay here?” Stiles asks, and Derek shrugs.

“We can leave tonight, you and I, if you’d like.” Derek suggests, but Stiles only shakes his head, leaning back into Derek’s chest and closes his eyes. The breeze picks up again, ruffling his hair, prickling his skin pleasantly. 

“We can be alone any time we want. I like it here.” Stiles says, but then whispers softly for only Derek’s ears; “even if Ennis freaks me out.”

Derek nods, glancing over at the man leaning against the barn, flicking the ashes off his cigarette. Ennis glances back at him, smirks and tosses his cigarette away and saunters back inside the barn. 

“He’s always been kind of cryptic and evil, but he’s never really talked to any of us, even when Laura and I first met Deucalion.” Derek stares after the man long after he’s gone. The wind carries with it the scent of a wounded animal, and it’s coming from the barn.

Stiles nods faintly, closing his eyes against the sunlight and letting it tickle his skin through the thin material of his clothes. “Let’s at least stay till Christmas.” He snuggles closer to Derek, absently squeezing the older man’s arm for reassurance.

* * *

“Alan?” The Sheriff calls as he walks into the vet’s clinic.

The dark man holds up a finger as he talks into the receiver of his receptionists’ phone. He greets the Sheriff with a friendly smile and says into the receiver; “yes, Mrs. Sterling, one pill a day with ease his knees. No, Mrs. Sterling, it won’t cure his arthritis, it’ll only make it more bearable for him. No, Mrs. Sterling, he wouldn’t survive a knee replacement surgery, he’s a fifteen-year-old Yorkie. Yes, thank you, Mrs. Sterling.”

He hangs up the phone and clasps his hands together with an exasperated sigh, turning his attention to the Sheriff. “What can I do for you, John?” He asks, and John shrugs.

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do for me.” He answers, then flops down in one of the seats in the lobby and folds his face into his hands, rubbing his stubbled cheeks slowly, letting the burn itch its way into his palms. “I’m just so—“ he breathes, the warmth of his breathe wafting up and over his hairline. “I’m so lost.”

“Well, as C.S. Lewis said, ‘ _not all who wander are lost._ ’ But maybe I have something that can help you. Come.” He motions for John to follow him, and walks over to the storefront, flipping the sign to _Closed_ and then turning back towards his office, holding the door open and waiting for John to walk through the door before he lets the door close.

“Now, tell me about your visit with Chris Argent.” Alan says, and John startles.

“How did you know—“

“I know many things.” Alan says, then motions for John to sit and talk.

John just shrugs, flops into the chair and slouches, sighs in defeat. “He wants me to test the tub Victoria died in for aconite.” 

“Why aconite?” Alan asks, and his tone of voice suggests he knows something he isn’t willing to share yet.

“I don’t know, because Victoria was a botanist? Maybe she brought some home with her and it fell into the tub with her and she accidently poisoned herself.” John shrugs, “the house is still up for sale. Everyone in town knows that’s the house someone died in, so no one will ever buy it.”

“Do you really think Victoria Argent, a trained professional, would be that careless if she knew how poisonous aconite was?” Alan asks with a raised brow, as if talking to a child, and John’s just given up trying to decipher whatever revelation the man is trying to lead him to.

“Come on, Alan.” He begs, “I’m tired. Just tell me what you know.”

Alan stares at him for a long time, considering. “Did you know aconite is also called Wolfsbane?” He asks, fiddling with a pen on his desk. John shakes his head, dumbfounded. “Legend has it Wolfsbane, or aconite, can kill a werewolf.”

“Werewolves? That’s what this is about? For _god’s sake,_ Alan, you can’t really expect me to believe that crock-of-crap.” John sighs in defeat, standing. “My son and daughter are missing,” he says, “I don’t have time to talk about folklore and myths.”

He turns to walks out, but when his hand touches the doorknob, he finds he can’t turn it. He stares at his hand, wondering why he can’t just turn the knob, why his hand feels numb, why he feels frozen in place, _why why why,_ before he turns to Deaton with astonishment and confusion burning bright on his features. Deaton’s hand is cocked in a why that suggests he’s mirroring John’s position—his hand is extended out, clasped around an invisible doorknob. Alan turns his hand, and when he does, John’s hand moves similarly, suggesting that somehow, Alan is manipulating his hand.

“What is God’s name—“ John gasps out.

“There are many things I want to tell you, John, but there’s just not enough time.” Alan says finally, manipulating the Sheriff’s hand to his side. John moves freely then, turning towards Deaton, who comes around to the front of his desk and stopped, staring at John. 

“Look around you, John. Look for the clues.” He inclines his brows, gestures to the room they’re currently in.

John looks, really looks, tries to see whatever it is that Deaton wants him to find. He looks back at the vet, shrugs with exaggerated motions. “What am I looking for, Alan?” He asks harshly.

Alan closes his eyes and breathes, and a serine sense of peace comes over the Sheriff, soothing his nerves in a way they haven’t been since he married Kate. John breaths in time with Alan, his conscious clearing itself forcefully, and he tries to chase it, tries to pull it back, but his thoughts skid to a halt—and that’s when John sees it. It’s just the tiny things, but they’re there, moving around in Alan’s office like bacteria. His pens reorganize themselves on his desk, facing his prescription pad. Smudges on the windows clean themselves away. Books vibrate with knowledge, those that seem most important move forwards slowly, pulling themselves away from their brethren. Tiny strings, thin like spider webs, pull and push things around in the vet’s office, making them more convenient for Deaton’s work. 

John gasps, taking in his entire surroundings. The room vibrates with life, with _magic_ , and John can _see_ it. He gaps at Alan, opening and closing his mouth, mimicking a fish. He’s flabbergasted, trying to find something to say, but nothing comes to mind.

“Do you see it now?” Alan asks softly, “the magic in the air?” He gestures around them, and John sees the tiny strings attached to Deaton’s fingertips, pushing and pulling the matter around his room. Deaton controls the strings, John realizes.

John nods slowly, trying to absorb everything. Deaton slides a finger towards him, and the chair he’s previously sat in moves closer to him, slides across the ground to position itself at his side. John stares down at it doubtfully. Alan gestures for him to sit, so John sits, feeling like he’s in shock and should probably seek out professional help. 

“It’s time you know everything, John, and it’s time you find your son.”

* * *

_December_

“I have a present for you.” Deucalion whispers into Laura’s ear late one evening. 

Christmas has been a somber experience for the whole pack. This is the first Christmas Stiles and Allison had without their families, and the first one Stiles and Derek had together, as well as the first time Laura and Derek had actually celebrated Christmas with anyone since the fire took their family from them. 

Deucalion and Laura’s pack is there together, gathered around a massive bonfire, mingling like they have been all winter. Aiden mostly avoids Derek and Stiles, while Ethan follows them around, envying their relationship and seeking out their solace. Kali and Jennifer mostly keep to each other, moving like magnets across a metal surface. Erica and Boyd are a little farther off, lounging around in their wolf forms, their tails tangled together, keeping watch over the forest. Isaac and Allison kiss softly in the glow of the fire, sitting beside Stiles and Derek. Ennis is over by the barn again, smoking his hourly cigarette, lungs full of smoke that he blows into the dark night sky with each passive exhale. 

“Oh yeah?” Laura asks happily. She wraps her arms around his waist as he leads her over towards the barn. Her smile slowly falls as they come closer and closer to the barn, to Ennis and his cruel smirk and wide, dark eyes. She looks back at her pack, and Derek and Stiles are already watching her carefully, waiting. They flash their eyes at her, and she shakes her head, signaling for them to stay.

“Alpha,” Ennis greets with a submissive nod, and Deucalion moves to Laura’s side.

“The surprise I have for you, love, is something I know you crave dearly, and I hope you’ll accept her as—” he pauses, hums in mock suspense and Laura thinks about what exactly _her_ is, “lets say—my official proposal to you?” He grins, and Laura stiffens as she hears a muffled cry from within the barn. 

Derek and Stiles jump up then, turning to look over at Boyd and Erica, who are already moving silently in the dark towards Laura. Isaac and Allison stand at Derek and Stiles side, eyes glowing yellow.

Deucalion doesn’t say anything more, he simply turns his back to her and grabs hold of the handles of the barn doors and swings them wide open. The grin doesn’t leave his face as he turns his blind eyes towards the creature within the barn.

There, hanging from metal chains, smelling thickly of aconite and blood, is a girl, not much older than the teenagers in Laura’s own pack, with long, matted, dirty hair, a thin torso with average breasts and thin, narrow hips. She’s not too tall, and Laura pauses, stunned, confused and angry all at once. She’s disgusted and bewildered and she turns to Deucalion, whose lips are curled back in a pleased smile. 

_“What the fuck is this?”_ She asks breathlessly. She can vaguely hear her pack moving around outside, can hear when Stiles make’s it to her side and gasps when he sees the doors girl within dangling helplessly from her wrists, her feet barely skimming the ground. She can hear the way Derek’s heart stutters at her side, pauses, then beeps fast and hard, angry in his chest. Erica and Boyd have circled behind the barn, creeping deathly quiet to protect their Alpha. Allison and Isaac are at Derek and Stiles’ side, covering all exits.

Ennis speaks first, having not paid any attention to Laura’s pack, but kept his dark, greedy eyes on the helpless, broken girl in front of them. “We found her with a pack in Wisconsin.” 

Deucalion speaks carefully, his hand low on Laura’s back, and it feels like a branding iron. “Go take a look, love.” He motions to the girl, and Derek comes to Laura’s back, his silence enough to encourage her forward, even if her stomach drops further and further with every step she takes closer to the figure. 

Stiles and Derek follow her into the barn, Deucalion’s pack growing more curious as the tension rises and becomes tangible in the air. Kali moves first, closing the distance between the bonfire and the barn, bringing with her a tentative Jennifer with a pounding heart.

The girl within the barn has bruises marring her wrist, creeping up her arms like spider webs. Laura reaches out to grab the chains, to pull the girl loose, but Stiles grips her wrist lightly and pulls her hand back to her side. “Wolfsbane,” he mutters softly, see the way the girls skin peels away and tries to heal itself over and over, but to no avail.

Stiles spares Laura a quick side-long glance, shocked at himself for being so calm when obviously Ennis has had a _person_ in Deucalion’s barn for god knows how long. He moves back to Laura’s side, but she grips his hand in hers. She needs the reassurance of her pack, and Stiles is the closest to her. She hesitantly reaches for the girl, moving her bangs out of the way of her bowed head and gasps. Laura feels the pressure building behind her eyes, the pinprick sensation of tears rupturing and overflowing, running down her face. 

Derek is already moving by then, shifting too quickly for Stiles’ eyes. His growl is feral and full of rage, and then there’s snarling and growling and blood in the air before Laura can pull herself together. Someone screams, and it sounds like Jennifer’s sobbing openly. Stiles moves from Laura’s side to her back, switching to his wolf-skin and pulling Ennis to the ground when he makes a move towards her, growling threateningly as Ennis flashes gold eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.

“What’re you gunna do?” Ennis taunts, but he doesn’t move, just smirks defiantly. Derek pounces on him, eye burn as he rips Ennis’ throat out. The man doesn’t make a sound as he dies, and Stiles is grateful for that. 

Deucalion watches blindly as Ennis dies at his feet, a frown tugging at his mouth as panic builds in his gut.

Derek and Stiles move for Aiden and Ethan, who come running when they first smell Ennis’ blood in the air. 

Erica and Boyd tackle and grab ahold Deucalion with their teeth and fangs, force him to the ground and bite into his skin, their fangs coated in treachery. 

Aiden moves to attack, but Jennifer flings her magic at the beta, holds him away from Deucalion. Aiden snarls at her, but Kali stands in between them, baring her teeth in challenge. “Traitor!” She screeches, but Aiden only growls back at her.

Ethan panics, looks at his brother one last time with fear clear in his eyes before he runs off into the forest, switching his form, leaving his twin and pack behind. “Ethan!” Aiden calls, his voice cracking with betrayal, but the other twin is already long gone, buried deep in the forest. 

Kali glares at him. “What have you done,” she hisses, her fangs slurring her words. Jennifer holds Aiden, her magic strong, as he babbles at her how the girl was meant to be a present for Laura, but he took no part in the _slaughter_ of the Wisconsin pack she was with before. 

Derek snarls, his teeth sharper than they’ve ever been when he moves to tear Aiden apart, piece by piece, ignoring the cries for his twin that seem to be his last words. Jennifer cries in Kali’s arms, whimpering. “What have they done?” She asks, and Kali holds her mate close to her, shushes her softly and turns her away from the carnage.

Allison and Isaac move to circle Deucalion, snapping their jaws at him when he tries to look up, tries to find Laura or his pack. “Laura!” Deucalion roars. “I bring you your family and you attack and massacre my pack?” He growls, his eyes flashing red, glaring in the direction of Jennifer and Kali, how haven’t moved. Kali snarls at him, the sound deafening. 

Stiles moves to join the growing circle of wolves, snarling and growling at Deucalion’s bowed form. His blood drips from Boyd and Erica’s mouth, splattering to the ground and coating their jaws like viscous poison. 

Jennifer pushes herself away from Kali’s hold, nodding at the girl in the barn. “Let me go help them,” she says, her voice cracking and breaking with the effort she makes to no sob.

Kali nods, watching as Jennifer runs to the girl dangling by her wrist in the barn. She grips the chains with tight hands, wills the locks to break and moves them from the girls’ wrists. Laura catches the girl before she hits the ground, pulling her flush against her chest. 

“Laura,” Jennifer says distantly, “we didn’t know—“ she sniffles, and Laura turns to see Jennifer’s eyes full or bright, glistening tears. Laura wants is to rip them all apart, and that’s when she realizes she growling, growing more wolf by the minute, sheading her human skin, “—I’m so sorry Laura, if Kali and I had known…” She wipes her eyes, places a hesitant hand on the naked girls’ face and wills the Wolfsbane from her wrists, wills the bruises to heal and for her consciousness to return.

The girl’s breath evens out as she blinks herself awake, slowly, blurrily gazing up at Laura. She growls for a moment, eyes flashing bright blue, before she blinks again, this time eagerly trying to clear the fog from her mind. “L-Laura?” She croaks, voice broken and coarse from disuse. Derek stiffens, his breath catching at the sound of the girls voice.

Laura nods, her wolf quieting down at the sound of her little sisters voice. _“Cora,”_ she nuzzles the girl’s temple, pulling her into her chest and sobbing openly. 

Deucalion growls, looking to Jennifer as she runs back to Kali’s arms. They grip each other close and walk into the forest, turning back to their dead pack-mates and the barn, but then Kali shifts and Jennifer follows, willing her body to shift into a black bird that flies above her mate and into the dark.

They leave Deucalion to his fate—alone and abandoned.

“Laura!” He shouts, betrayal thick in his voice, his wolf growling angrily beneath the surface, “are you not satisfied?” He asks, pulling at Erica and Boyd’s hold. They growl, bite down hard enough to break bones, causing Deucalion to wince and hiss.

Laura pulls her jacket from her shoulders, places it around Cora gently and cups her face in her hands. She kisses Cora’s forehead softly, then moves to Deucalion as if she’s drifting on a breeze. She moves between two of her wolves, Allison and Stiles, as they circle, and she gently takes Deucalion’s face in her hands. She kisses him softly, to the astonishment of her pack, whispers a soft thank you that loosens Deucalion’s muscles with pride, and then effortlessly rips his head from his shoulders. 

Derek burns the farm to the ground, flinches away from the fire as it grows and grows and consumes. Laura sets the barn on fire too, while the pack pulls Deucalion and Ennis and Aiden into the flames. They watch the body’s burn up and char, then turn to dust and ash. 

Cora and Derek stand beside her, sniffling and looking all that more like orphans. Laura pulls them both into her arms, falls to the ground and sobs with them until they can’t cry anymore. The pack stands around them, guarding them protectively, and when the sirens creep closer early in the morning, they all shift and run for the safety of the forest. 

It takes weeks for Laura to shift into her human-skin again, and when she does, she almost faints from the overwhelming sadness that corrupts her heart and soul. It’s easier to deal with emotional trauma as a wolf than as a human. The pain and sadness and anger are overabundant and deafening, clouding her thoughts. Her mate had betrayed her, had tortured her little sister, had killed her little sisters pack as way of forcing Laura into marrying him and combining their packs. 

She doesn’t really know if she’s happy to have found Cora—of course she’s happy they found Cora, Cora is her sister—but she wishes Cora could have remained with her pack, and maybe, just maybe, Laura may have eventually found her, _eventually_. And that’s the key point.

Cora doesn’t talk much about her pack, or how Deucalion found her and her pack. She doesn’t speak about what happened to her in the barn, and Laura isn’t sure she wants to know, to be fully honest. But Cora recovers quickly, for the most part. She shies away from most of the pack simply because she doesn’t know them well enough, which is understandable. Derek treats them both like porcelain, as if he can’t touch them, fearing they’ll both shatter into a million pieces. 

Stiles brings small prey to his Alpha, fearing she’ll starve if she doesn’t start hunting with them again soon. Laura sniffs at the dead rabbit he brings her, tears a bit of flesh from it’s back and works her jaws around it, swallowing slowly, but without much else effort. She bows her head in thanks, but turns from the meal and curls in on herself sighs, closing her eyes. Derek trots to his side, nudging him away with a soft whine. He curls around Laura’s left side, whining for Cora’s assistance.

Stiles scoots the rabbit closer to Laura, sitting on his haunches in front of her and Derek until she opens her eyes and stares up at him. He scoots the rabbit closer, ignoring her warning growl and huffs, waiting patiently. 

Cora trots over, curls around Laura’s opposite side and lies down obediently. Her fur is grey and black, peppered like Laura’s, only lighter, while Derek remains solid black and terrifying.

Allison hesitantly creeps closer to Stiles’ side and sits beside him, shifting to talk. Stiles shifts too, and leans into her side, staring down at their Alpha and her siblings. 

“I don’t think any of us really knows what to do.” He says eventually, and Allison nods in agreement.

* * *

It’s the last few days before Winter Break, full of finals and stress, and Scott stares down at his school lunch with sever distaste. The meatloaf is some kind of mystery meat castoff with a too-red ketchup sauce slathered on top to mask the taste. The small side of baby carrots are too soggy, able to be bent in whatever direction without breaking, and it’s unnatural. Scott shoves the plate away from his being, sighing in defeat. Maybe he’ll go up and get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but then again, there’s only two hours left in school. He could just wait till he gets home and grab something from whatever’s in the fridge.

He looks over the cafeteria, at the students talking and conversing with their friends, before his eyes land on Lydia, who is also starring down at her lunch with misery before she reaches into her purse and produces a book and flips it open to a dog-eared page. She’s been alone at her lunch table since Fall Break, nearly nine weeks ago. Jackson’s been absent for sometime now, having broken up with Lydia in front of the whole school and then up and moved to London without a word.

That had, effectively, voided Lydia’s popularity amongst the school populace. For the most part—she was still terrifyingly smart and beautiful, but without Jackson, she’d only had Danny and a few others, and then they’d realized that Jackson had dumbed down Lydia, and without him, she was free to exploit her intelligence on whomever thought they could match her—which none could. That had been her ultimate downfall.

The other’s had soon left her, leaving Danny as her only companion. And Danny was nice—he was perhaps the by-product of having popular friends. Jackson and Lydia and he had been friends for nearly as long as Stiles and Scott had—Scott winced at the thought—and when Lydia and Jackson ascended the ranks of popularity, they’d dragged Danny along with them. He was still good-looking, and a great lacrosse player, as well as inhumanly friendly and nice.

Currently, Danny’s on the receiving end of detention with Harris during their lunch hour. Apparently, his incompetent lab partner—Greenburg—had mixed two chemicals during a class experiment that shouldn’t have been mixed and set a fire that caused the fire department’s services to be rendered and an emergency school evacuation. Really, it had nothing to do with Danny, but Greenburg had caused it, so Danny got roped into detention as well.

Scott sighs in defeat and flexes his hands, building his courage as he stares down at his mutant food. He picks up his uneatable lunch and his backpack, walks over to Lydia’s table and sits down across from her. She glances up at him curiously, then turns back to her book and continues reading as if he isn’t there.

Since Stiles’ absence, Lydia hadn’t really been the same. She seemed it, on the surface, but Scott and Stiles and her had been friends since fifth grade, and even when Lydia’s social statues elevated her above them, they still all tried to look out for each other—even when Stiles developed his crush on Lydia and Lydia had fallen in love with Jackson. 

Lydia looks up from her book once more, eyeing Scott as he pokes at his school lunch with a fork, watching the grey meat jiggle like jello. She purses her lips in disgust, pushes her tray towards him, motioning for him to finish hers instead—it’s tacos with a side of chips, but at least it’s edible—Scott bows his head as he steals her chips and apple juice.

They don’t speak, but when the bell rings signaling the end of lunch, Lydia walks with him to their next class, though she looks like she’s trying to listen to something, like it was calling to her distantly, far away and just out of reach. It’s a sound like a woman crying, and Lydia can’t seem to figure out where it’s coming from—ghosts, probably, she thinks. Scott would have commented on it, but he figures she’s just trying to concentrate on whatever she’d been reading at lunch.

This sort of silent lunch table configuration continues even after Danny gets out of detention. Lydia and Danny have a silent series of conversations that mostly involves raised eyebrows and blinks and long, pointed stares. Scott just laughs at them. “I can move, if you guys wanna talk.” He says, smiling shyly. He didn’t really want to move, but he would, if Lydia wanted him to. 

Danny shakes his head eagerly, “no, no, no,” he says, waving a hand, “it’s just, you know, you never sat with us before…” he shrugs, “it’s nice to see you’re doing okay.”

“Danny!” Lydia hisses.

Danny shrinks under her glare. He dips his head to Scott, “I just meant, with Stiles—“

“Danny!”

“No, it’s okay Lydia,” Scott turns to Danny, “I miss him, I do, but you know, I think he’s okay, wherever he is.”

“You think he’s still alive?” Danny asks, almost disbelieving, and Lydia smacks him with her books repeatedly, hissing at him.

Scott laughs loudly, and it’s a refreshing sort of feeling, if a little painful, to talk about Stiles for the first time so openly. “Yeah,” he says, after everything calms down a little and Lydia’s done beating Danny with her books. “I think he’s still alive, somewhere.” 

He turns to look down at his lunch tray then, missing the look Lydia gave him, like she’s considering him for the first time as more than just a classmate. Danny sees the look, and gives her a raised look, but then smirks, knowingly, and shakes his head with a playful grin.

The weeks continue like this, every day the three of them growing more and more comfortable, until one day Scott finds himself falling into Lydia’s bed, their lips connect eagerly, and she’s saying his name over and over and over, and Scott doesn’t know what to do with his hands except tangle them with hers and push her further into the bed, inserting himself into her warm, slick places and tasting her skin like the worlds finest delicacy, and Lydia hiccups his name like it’s the only thing she knows.

They don’t make it official, but it seems like everyone knows anyways. Danny doesn’t comment on the fact that Lydia sits beside Scott at their table now, doesn’t comment on the way Scott brushes Lydia’s hair out of her face or how Lydia puts down her book during lunch now.

She visits him at the clinic, watches him work as she does homework and research in Deaton’s office or within the procedure room when he’s talking to a couple about setting their dogs leg after an accident with a slick tile floor and brittle, old bones. She stares at her computer screen, reading some hocus pocus about the earth’s ley lines and people with receptive abilities, but ultimately frowns and sighs, pushing the computer away from her in frustration. She’ll never figure out what it is she’s hearing at this rate—and the sound, the crying, it’s driving her crazy.

Deaton pauses sometimes, considering her thoughtfully. He passes her an old book one day and makes her read it. It’s in Latin, and even when Lydia looks up at him in surprise, he just gives her a knowing looks. “You’re a smart girl,” he says, “figure out what it is you’re hearing, and if you have questions after that, let me know.” He taps the book, motioning for her to open it. “Keep it.” He says, as if she knows what he’s talking about, “return it when you’re done and you’ve got your answers.” He turns then, leaving her to scan the pages before she shoves the book in her purse and goes to find Scott.

He’s in the back room, feeding the dogs and cats in the cages, and she has to pauses for a moment, stunned by how her heart hiccups at his soft expression and caring eyes. “Scott,” she calls softly, much softer than she intended, and he turns to her, his lips blossoming into a beautiful, loving smile.

“Hey Lyds, what’s up?” He asks, coming to her side and kissing her cheek, brushing his fingertips against her face in a way Jackson never had. 

“I’m going to head home, okay?” She says, and Scott nods, still smiling. 

“I’ll come by later, if you’d like?”

“Yeah, sure.” She says, and kisses him slowly, softly, then turns and leaves the room when her stomach twists with butterflies that dive-bomb her heart. 

When she gets home, she peels open the book Deaton gave her and spends hours reading over the material inside, touching the old, worn pages and leathered spine. She gets to a section where her heart stops for a moment, grows bold in her chest before rocketing forth. “Banshee,” she reads, then pauses and smiles, because it feels right, feels whole to say the words, like her tongue is full of thick, warm honey. She sets the book to her side and lies back in her bed. 

The next week Lydia curls herself around Scott in his bed, listens to him talk about Stiles and how one time they tried to run away in fourth grade and got to the gas station just outside of town before they got hungry and decided it was best to turn around. “We ordered pizza and Stiles’ mom came home from work early to play video games with us,” he says, then laughs and sighs, “I miss them.”

Lydia holds him close, kisses him soft and sighs with him once, deeply. “I remember her,” she says after a while, “she used to read to us at the library on Saturday morning.” She smiles, and Scott nods once, “I remember that was the only time Stiles used to sit still.”

Scott laughs at that, pinching the bridge of his nose and screws up his face. Lydia can see the sharp glistening of his eyes, knows that talking about Stiles makes Scott want to cry and she pushes him into the bed, lays her head on his chest and rubs soothing circles into his ribcage. “It’s okay,” she whispers, and Scott’s chest trembles beneath her palm. 

He covers his face with one hand and pulls her closer with the other, but he doesn’t make a sound as tears leak beneath his hand, falling down to land in her hair.

Lydia doesn’t say a word, simply listens to the earth as it mourns, weeping like it’s lost a child, and Lydia knows it’s because Stiles and his magic are missing.

* * *

Laura picks herself up sometime in late November. 

They march on further east, trekking quietly through Grizzly Bear territory, but to no avail. 

Derek is wounded in a territorial dispute with a Grizzly and Laura has to jump in to save him. Derek’s bloodstains the snow a vivid red and Stiles almost hurls at the stench. He runs to Derek’s side in his human-skin and picks his wounded wolf mate up, carrying him away from danger as Derek whimpers and whines, yelping when Stiles jostles him too roughly. 

Allison, Cora and Isaac assist their Alpha, who kills a bear six times her size and comes out alive, but wounded. She limps towards her pack before leaning heavily on the trunk of a tree, catching her breath. She drops her wolf-skin, standing slowly before falling back to her knees, groaning and panting as the snow turns crimson around her. 

Boyd kisses Erica’s cheek before he slowly approaches Laura, holding out his human hands in a gesture of peace before he carefully scoops their Alpha up, holding her against his chest. “You did good,” he whispers into her hair, and Laura scoffs weakly, her eyes closing.

They run towards any type of shelter they can find.

They come across an abandoned cabin and hole up there for the night, waiting out the storm that kicks up in their wake, blowing snow in every which direction. Stiles touches the facets, wills the water in the bathroom to run warm and clean under his grip. Laura smiles at him weakly, proud that even without her help, Stiles is getting the hang of small things involving his magic. He turns the shower on and helps Derek inside, scrubbing the blood away from healing wounds. 

“I’m fine, Stiles, really.” Derek protests, but Stiles doesn’t stop fluttering over every wound and watching the skin knit itself together slowly, the wounds healing up nice enough and leaving behind beautiful pink skin. 

“You were nearly mauled by a bear, I’m allowed to be worried Derek, now shut up.” He grabs to move Derek’s head, pushing his hair underwater as the dark strands run red with blood caked into his scalp. Stiles runs his fingers through the dark strands until the water runs clear again, and then he breathes a sigh of relief when Derek smiles at him tiredly, leaning his head against Stiles shoulder.

“I love you,” Derek says softly, water running over his lips as he speaks, bubbling his words.

Stiles hums peacefully, bringing his arms around Derek’s shoulders and pulling him close. “Don’t do that again,” he warns, and Derek chuckles, his skin slick and clean and smelling of he and Stiles.

“I won’t.”

Boyd and Cora help Laura into the shower once Stiles gets Derek out, and she doesn’t much complain when the water comes out too cold and then too hot before Stiles finds a perfect median. She stands in the water, watching the blood run from her skin and paint the water at her feet crimson until it all runs clear. 

Stiles doesn’t talk, even when he wants to, just keeps a steady grip on the facet, makes sure Laura stays standing. Erica comes up beside him and sits on the broken, rusted toilet. “Go on,” she says, waving him off.

“But the water—“ 

“She’ll be fine.” Erica says quickly, and Stiles nods hesitantly, getting up and walking out of the bathroom. He spares a glance at their Alpha and Erica smiles encouragingly, waving him away. He closes the door behind him with a creak.

She turns back towards Laura, rubbing her growing stomach fondly. “Talk,” she demands, and Laura glances at her over her shoulder, then turns back to the tile wall in front of her. “Come on,” Erica gestures, and Laura stays quiet for a few minutes longer before she starts to cry all over again, her knees growing weak as she sinks lower into the tub and begins sobbing openly. 

“I trusted him,” she weeps, and Erica places a warm hand on the back of Laura’s neck, urging her to keep talking. “I trusted him and he killed a pack of our own kind and held Cora captive for god knows how long and I—“ she sobs, covers her face out of shame as the water runs cold as ice, “—and I still loved him, even after all that.” 

Erica purses her lips together and tries to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of her eyes. She doesn’t say anything, only let’s Laura work through all this herself. The pack needs their Alpha back, and Laura needs her pack. One cannot exist without the other. 

“Let it go, Laura.” Erica urges softly, her hand falling to her stomach once more. “Derek let go of his burdens, you need to let go of yours.” Laura hiccups, and Erica squeezes comfort into her shoulders, crawling into the tub with her Alpha and holding her close, cupping the back of Laura’s head as she sobs into the pregnant girls shoulder. “Cora doesn’t blame you for what happened to her or her pack. She’s here now. She’s with us now. That’s all that matters.” She kisses Laura’s forehead, folding her Alpha’s head into her neck, lets her absorb the smells of her pack. “Everything happens for a reason.” 

When Laura dries off and curls herself inside the cabin with her pack, she glances over at Derek and Cora, huddled together with Stiles at their side. Derek meets her gaze and holds it. “We could make this cabin livable. We could stay here, at least for a while.” He says, then adds, “if you want.”

Laura buries herself deeper into her pack, curling around them protectively. “We’ll talk about it more in the morning,” she mutters, and closes her eyes. Derek sleeps peacefully for the first time in nearly a month.

* * *

Morrell gets a call from Deaton just before New Years, asking her to try to locate a pack of wolves they may or may not be in her area, or at least in her general vicinity. She doesn’t ask questions, only gathers the information Deaton gives her and quickly gets on the phone, calling a few friends and old colleagues she knows still associates with wolves.

“Jennifer Blake would be a good place to start,” one says, “I hear she’s mated to one now.”

It takes Morrell a few days to find the woman, but when she finally tracks her down, it’s to an apartment in Orlando, Florida.

A dark skinned woman with even darker eyes answers the door with a growl and bristles, flashing golden eyes. Kali can taste Morrell’s magic on her tongue, can feel it vibrate uncomfortably in his gut—it’s nothing like her mate’s magic, and it forces itself on Kali like a virus.

“Who are you?” Kali snarls, and Morrell holds up her hands showing she doesn’t have any weapons. The pull of her magic lessens slightly.

“I’m here to see Jennifer Blake.” She says, and the dark skinned woman pauses for a moment, turning slightly as if to check with someone behind the door. Slowly, she moves out of the way and Jennifer comes around to face Morrell with a hesitant, worried smile.

“Marin Morrell,” she chuckles, “what can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” Jennifer moves back, ignoring the growl that bubbles forth from Kali’s throat. Morrell moves in quickly, keeping a weary eye on Jennifer’s mate as she takes a seat at their table.

Morrell holds out a picture of two teenagers and Jennifer takes the photo, gasping at the people in the picture. “Kali,” she calls, and the dark skinned woman comes back to her side, glancing at the picture in her hand.

Her face turns hard, “What do you want with Stiles and Allison?”

“Kali,” Jennifer warns softly, but Kali only rolls her eyes dramatically.

“It’s not like she doesn’t know who they are, she’s obviously come to us for a reason and she’s got pictures of them. She thinks we know something.” She gestures at Morrell and bitterly glares at her simultaneously.

Jennifer sighs, long-sufferingly, motioning for Morrell to talk. “What do you need to know about them?” She asks, sitting down on the arm of a chair that Kali plops down in across from Morrell. 

“I’m looking for these two, they’re from a small town in Beacon Hills, California.”

“Yeah, and?” Kali prompts, her brow raised.

Morrell gives her a long look before she speaks. “I assume they’re running with the remaining Hale pack, or that’s what I’ve been told, and I’d like to talk to them about coming back to Beacon Hills and letting my brother be their emissary.”

Kali scoffs. “Deaton was already their emissary. He didn’t warn the hunters off that burned that house to the ground with children inside it.” She shrugs, as if it doesn’t tug at her heartstrings, “what makes you think the Hale pack will ever go back to Beacon Hills now?”

Morrell sighs, tapped the pictures of Stiles and Allison. “Their step-mother was the hunter that burned the Hale house to the ground.” Kali leans forward, snarling in disgust. The word leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Morrell continues; “she was poisoning the man she married, their father, and once those kids disappeared, she did too. We haven’t been able to locate her, but the kid’s father is the Sheriff of the town and he survived the poisoning, and Deaton has been working with him on some cold-cases that involve the Hale fire and the deaths that surround it.” She points at Allison’s picture. “Katherine Argent isn’t her real mother, but her aunt.” 

“Allison’s an Argent?” Jennifer asks, breathlessly. 

Morrell digs in her bag, pulling out pictures from a manila folder inside as she nods. “She wasn’t raised as a hunter. She was only taught to defend herself. Her mother and father, Victoria and Chris Argent, taught her only what she needed to know, but they didn’t want a hunters life for her, so they moved to Beacon Hills. Victoria still worked with aconite, but she was bit by a stray Alpha right before her death.”

“How did she die?” Kali asks, her eyes flashing gold dangerously.

Jennifer takes the pictures Morrell hands her, looking them over. One is a picture of Kate Argent and the Sheriff on their wedding day. The other is a picture of Victoria and Chris Argent and a young Allison seated between them. She could see the resemblance between Chris and Kate, and between Kate and Allison. She cringes.

“We believe she was drowned in bathwater containing trace amounts of aconite.” Morrell says, “and because she was bitten, she died when the poisoned water touched her skin, and then entered her lungs.”

Kali hisses between her teeth, seething in her seat. “So what you’re saying is Kate killed Victoria because she got the bite?”

“And then framed her brother, Chris, because he would have let Victoria live as a wolf. He’s in prison for life, unless he’s proven innocent.” She points at the pictures in Jennifer’s hand. “We can prove his innocents, but the Sheriff wants to know where his kids are, and he wants them home. He won’t give up his search for them, and Deaton wants the Hales back in Beacon Hills to prove that Kate murdered their entire family.”

“But _why?”_

Morrell looks at them long and hard, and Jennifer nods in understanding. “Because the land remembers.”

Kali settles back into the couch. Of course. She sighs, rolls her eyes and stares at the pictures in Jennifer’s hands. One of the kids is magic, or was, before the bite, and with the kids gone as well as the wolves, the land will begin to within and die, and there’s only so much an emissary without a pack can do to prevent that from happening.

Kali sighs, rubs her temples and frowns. “We’ll put some feelers out for you. We haven’t seen them since Canada.” 

Morrell nods, thanks them for their time and shows herself out.

* * *

The cabin flares to life as the pack continues to build onto it and make it livable once more. It looks like no ones lived in it for ages and ages anyways, and perhaps the pack can live there, if only for a little while. The work brings Laura back to life, gives her something to take her mind off of and rebuild—it gives her a purpose. Allison and Isaac repair the roof, Derek and Cora work the wiring and heating, while Boyd guts and rips out the plumbing and fixing the tiles inside. Erica and Stiles paint the walls, bring life to the very being and essence of the cabin and soon, the whole thing is remodeled and looking classy enough for everyone’s taste.

Stiles starts a garden, fertilizes the soil and preps the ground, listens to the soft, muffled weeping that follows him around everywhere, calling to him softly. He plops rose bulbs into the dirt and packs it all back in, pats it tight and pours water over the new dirt. The weeping becomes softer, dulled, and though Stiles doesn’t know what exactly the sound is, he hopes it eventually stops. He wills the flower to germinate, to grow into beautiful, fresh blossoms, and to make Laura smile all the time.

The pack stands outside, marveling at their work. Derek kisses Stiles dirty cheek, curling his other arm around his little sister’s shoulder. “We should go into town.” Erica prompts, and Stiles smiles.

“We should really start preparing for the baby and all that, too.” Cora suggests, and Erica rubs her stomach fondly, smiling wide.

The pack walks into the city, and it doesn’t take long to reach the center of it all, but the streets are crowded and loud and for a moment, Stiles and Allison have a small bit of culture shock again. They’ve been surrounded by a handful of people for the last few months, and now being shoved and touched by people they don’t know—don’t recognize—makes them a little uneasy and irritable.

Cora dives into the first donation ben she finds and hands them articles of clothing that look warm enough for the temperatures outside, as well as don’t overheat them from the inside—because wolves run hotter than humans.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Isaac holds a mildew smelling sweater away from his nose, tosses it back into the ben and holds out a hand for a different jacket.

Cora shrugs, “from my old pack.”

Isaac ducks his head, embarrassed and guilty smelling. Laura pats his head, taking the sweater Cora offers him and moves away. 

“Where to?” Allison asks, and Laura shrugs, searching the donation box for a pair of mittens for Boyd. They looked like hobos, all mismatched and dirty, but happy.

“We could probably pass ourselves off as grungy hipsters, to be honest.” Stiles examined his shirt, pulling the hem away from his waistline to smirk at the bold white letters, screaming _“I don’t wanna taco ‘bout it”_ with a picture of a disgruntled looking taco. “Who would throw this away? This is _golden_. You know who throws stuff like this away? _Demons,_ Derek.” He pats his chest, smiles down at the animated taco.

Derek hides his smile behind his hand and it’s probably the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen.

“Ooooh, wait, what time is it?” Erica asks, rubbing her swollen stomach fondly, and Isaac searches the streets for a clock tower, anything that could embellish the time for them. Stiles ends up pressing his face to the store window of a shop and starring at the clock on the back wall before it registers that it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening. He relays the time to Erica and she grins, dragging them towards the center of the city.

“Where are we even?” He asks, looking up at the tall buildings before it registered where he was exactly. “Holy crap, are we in New York?!” 

Derek grin, nodding his head. “I’ve never been to New York!” Stiles crows happily. “This is more people than I expected.” He says in bewilderment and Erica laughs.

“Do you even know what day it is?!” She giggles and points towards the celebration going on not far away—they can hear it, and it’s deafening. “It’s New Years Eve, dummy!”

Stiles gasps, stunned, for just a moment. Had it really been that long? He and Allison share a small, bewildered look, full of happiness and sadness all at once.

“Laura loves to watch the ball drop.” Derek says easily.

“No kidding?” Stiles asks, and they move towards the center of town, pushing their way through the crowds as they stare up at the bright screens and blinding lights. The crowd is loud and boisterous, and they grow louder as midnight approaches. Stiles grips Derek’s hand at his side and they look up at the giant television screen, watching the timer count down the last few minutes left before the new year.

“I’m glad you’re with me.” Derek says, and Stiles grins, curling his arms around Derek’s broad shoulders. 

“Me too.”

They stand together as the crowd grows wild, bolder in their exclamations, and as the ball drops, Laura’s celebratory howl beside them is more deafening over the hoots and calls of the people of New York. Derek and Stiles kiss through their laughter, and Stiles grins. “I love you,” he says, and Derek’s eyes widen, before he bends to kiss Stiles again.

“I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Stiles chuckles, burying his cold nose into Derek’s neck. Derek wraps his arms around him, holding him close.

“Stiles!” Isaac and Cora call, and both wolves turn towards their pack-mates. Boyd and Erica are already beside Allison and Isaac, looking worried and frantic. Derek, Laura and Stiles make their way over to the group, gathered in front of an electronics storefront, the bright televisions in the window broadcasting news from around the world. 

Allison’s hands are over her mouth and tears are streaming down her cheeks, freezing to her skin as the wind whips up snow around them. “Ally?” Stiles asks worriedly, turning to face her fully. She points at the window, at one particular television screen, and Stiles turns to look at it, seeing a familiar face from the California News Channel. His brows furrow in confusion, but Derek crows in around his back anyways, his anticipation building low in his gut.

 _”… it’s been four months since the search began for Genim Stilinski and Allison Argent, two siblings that disappeared overnight in a little town called Beacon Hills, California,”_ the newscaster says, her voice solemn, staring Allison and Stiles straight in the face as she glances at the telecaster momentarily, _”tonight, the town offers their condolences to the Sheriff, father of the two children, as the search is officially called off._ ” The screen switches to a video of the townspeople, holding candles outside of Beacon Hills High School, and Stiles swears he sees Melissa and Scott for just a second before the screen switches again, this time to his father, and Allison stops breathing for a second at his side—his own heart is caught in his throat, choking off his airway. 

Derek places his hand on Stiles shoulder, but Stiles hardly feels him over the shattering of his heart. Briefly, he wonders, if their father has been eating right; he’s still awfully thin, but he’s not dead. _He’s not dead._

 _”The search has been called off,”_ John says, his eyes shining even now, but his face looks determined, even though he looks even more tired and determined than ever, _”but that doesn’t mean we’ve given up.”_ The Sheriff’s voice breaks, and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from crying. Stiles knows the action well. _”I-if you have any information about my kids, or Katherine Argent, please call the Beacon Hills Police Department. Thank you.”_

The screen switches again to the news anchors, with a smaller view in the corner of the townspeople with candles in their hands, and a memorial set up for both Allison and Stiles.

Allison begins to cry, her tears smelling of anger and desperation. “Stiles,” she sobs, and Stiles doesn’t realize he’s crying until the pack gathers around them and pushes them into a lung-crushing pack huddle. Derek smells of regret, but Stiles buries himself in Derek’s neck, crushing the man back.

“Stiles,” Allison calls weakly, once more, “dad’s okay.” She says, and Stiles pauses for a minute, turns to look at her briefly. He feels conflicted, because he knew that if his dad got better, there would be a search for them, but at the same time he didn’t think his dad _would_ get better, or that he’d worry so much about him and Allison. 

He rubs his eyes and buries his head in Derek’s shoulder, guilt bubbling within him greedily. “We should go,” Laura offers, and leads them away from the center, slowly, so that they make their way through the crowd as carefully as they can. 

Derek tries to offer Stiles some sort of comfort, tries to get him to talk about what had happened, but all Stiles does is work himself up. He makes Derek touch him, rides Derek into the snowy ground, moaning Derek’s name like it’s the only thing he knows how to say anymore, using the cold around them and the heat of Derek to ground him and anchor him in place. 

“Stiles,” he groans, defeated, “come on,” he begs, laughs bitterly against his better judgment. He moves against Stiles with a new desire he finds himself incapable of ignoring any long once Stiles slides all the way down onto him, rocking his hips forward feverishly, a name on his lips, and it sounds a lot like Derek’s.

Derek crumbles, flips them with a feral growl and takes Stiles for all he’s worth. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, leaves open mouthed kisses all over Derek’s skin, his lips like burning embers over dried grass, sparking fires that roam and ignite all over their bodies, devastating and demanding in their wake. 

Stiles gasps, pulls at Derek’s hair and crushed their mouths together harder than necessary, his blunt nails leaving red hot trails as Derek’s hip snap into him. Their bodies grow slick, moving together with sharp groans, pliant and plenty at the tips of their tongues, hushed and swallowed whole in their endeavors to devour each other entirely. 

“Derek,” Stiles moans, his hips bucking up, the cold, frozen ground beneath him growing distant as sparks build behind his eyes, bursting with every eager thrust, every clench and quiver of muscle, growing stuttered and needy. Derek bends forward, gasping desperately, his teeth fanged, holding Stiles’ hips in a bruising grip as his knot begins to form, pulls and pushes at Stiles’ warmth before growing too large, filling Stiles too full. His back arches at the pleasant strain, but the knot only pushes deeper into him, and his punched out moan brings him over the edge. 

“Goddamn, _Stiles_ ,” Derek groans, his lungs on fire, and then they’re both toppling over into bliss, hissing like liars and thieves caught in a trap. Derek collapses onto Stiles, letting the younger man take his weight completely. The snowflakes that fall melt onto his heated, exposed back as they cascades around them, falling to their deaths. 

Stiles doesn’t unwind his ankles from around Derek’s waist, just holds him there and breathes deeply through clenched teeth and closed eyes. “Stiles?” Derek tries, cautiously, but Stiles just folds his arms over his eyes and breaths deeply, spent and tired and unhappy, but Derek can see the way his shoulder tremble, so he stays put, covers the younger man with his body and hopes it’s enough to be here, near him, inside him, protecting and surrounding him as best he can. 

In the morning, when the sun has risen, Allison will come to Stiles’ side and sit quietly beneath a tree with him, not really talking, just staring blankly out at the snowy landscape before them. She smells of Isaac in the same way that he smells of Derek. He figures it’s probably unhealthy to want sex while in emotional distress, but if Laura can sulk as a wolf for nearly a month after her emotional trauma, he and Allison can demand sex for theirs.

“I don’t ever want to go back into the city.” She says, finally, and the rest of the pack tries not to eavesdrop, but they’re pack, and two of them are in pain, and they all care for each other dearly. 

“I understand,” Stiles says, and he plucks a dead, brown leaf from the snows deadly hold and flips it between his fingers before releasing it to the soft breeze that blows past them. “I don’t think I do either.” He says finally.

“Dad’s okay, though.” She says softly, and Derek watches the tense line that runs up Stiles’ spine, and smell the guilt that rolls off him from a distance. 

“Yeah, he is.” He says, so softly it’s muffled by the wind.

Allison worries her bottom lip, her brows set in an angry bunch. “Kate’s left him, then.” 

“I’m sure she’s around.” Stiles says, and he glances up, meets Laura’s eyes and holds her gaze for a minute. “I’ll kill her if we ever see her again.”

Laura doesn’t look away. Cora grins.

* * *

_January_

Morrell hears from a few sources, and Kali, that the kids and their pack have been seen in New York around New Year’s, but only just briefly before they disappeared once more. 

“They were only there to see the ball drop supposedly, but then they bailed back into the forest.” Kali says, then adds, “My source says one of their pack is pregnant. You might wanna look into that.” 

Morrell does, tracks the pack through the thawing ice. She comes across a frozen, dead bears carcass and examines the teeth marks, realizing that this bear encountered the wolves a few weeks back. Its claws are coated in wolf blood.

She continues on, searching through the snow till she finds a cabin not far off, recently remodeled and cared for. It heart-warming, really, picturesque with budding roses off to the side. Morrell shakes her head. Roses don’t bloom in snow. 

She approaches the cabin, knocking softly.

Laura answers the door coolly, her clothes mismatching and baggy. She raises a brow, and behind her, Derek and Stiles stare at the woman at the door questionably. 

“Hello,” Morrell offers, gently, “I need to talk to you and your pack.”

Laura tenses. “Who are you?” She asks immediately, her face becoming stoic and unreadable.

Morrell offers her hand. “Marin Morrell, Alan Deaton’s sister. We’ve been looking for you and your pack for a few weeks now.” 

“Deaton?” Stiles asked questioningly. “The vet, or…?”

“Yes,” Laura answers without turning to look at him. Her eyes never leave Morrell, “he was our mother’s emissary when we lived in Beacon Hills.”

Morrell nods slowly. “May I come in and talk with you and your pack?”

Laura contemplates her options before slowly opening the door, motioning for her to come in. “Cora, go get the others.”

Cora’s up the stairs before Laura even finishes the sentence, calling for her other pack mates. They file in slowly, all half asleep and confused and in Allison’s case, grumpy. 

“Wassup?” Erica prompts with a yawn, rubbing the palm of her hand into her eyes, “everythin’ cool?” 

Laura doesn’t answer, and Morrell’s eyes automatically zero in on Erica’s plump stomach. So what Kali had said was true, one of the Hales’ pack mates is indeed pregnant. 

“So what can we do for you?” Derek asks, pulling Stiles closer to him. He’ll be damned if another person tries to hurt his mate. 

Morrell takes a seat on the opposite side of the pack, glancing at each of their faces, memorizing them. “My brother, Alan, was indeed the Hales’ emissary back before the fire. But something has happened in Beacon Hills, and he thinks it has to do with the disappearance of your pack, as well as…” Her eyes drift to Stiles and Allison, “one of you is magic, or was, before you took the bite, and the land has claimed you for herself.”

Laura doesn’t give anything away, but Allison glances down at Stiles, sitting beside Derek. “Stiles?” She asks skeptically.

Stiles sighs, looking down at his hands before willing a fire to rise in the fireplace, stoking the fire with nothing but air. 

“Well then,” Isaac pats his shoulders gently. 

“I thought so,” Morrell says, her lips curling into a polite smile. “Stiles, Beacon Hills is basically a beacon for the supernatural. If you decided to go home,” she pauses, looks at him specifically, “the land would protect you and your pack, so long as you stay close.” 

“Laura already said I was a Spark, or whatever, back when I first got the bite, but I can only do little things, you know, like get plants to grow and light fires and make warm water.” Stiles shrugs, “why would the land care about me at all, especially after I got turned?”

Morrell shrugs, “Deaton says it might have something to do with your mother,” she sighs, “but that’s not the only reason we want you back. Your father is looking for Kate, and we’re trying to get Chris Argent released from prison.”

Allison gasps and Laura turns towards her.

Morrell raises a hand to pause her. “We found out that it was Kate who killed your mother, we know that now.” Allison’s bottom lip trembles, “the Sheriff had the tub your mother was drowned in tested. Do you remember the bath fizzles your mother liked?” 

Allison nods, her eyes growing wet as she squeezes Stiles’ hand. “They were infused with Aconite. Your mother was bite by a rouge Alpha and turned wolf. Your father knew she was bitten, and protected her from the rest of your family, but Kate…” Morrell pauses, feeling uncertain. 

Allison snarls. “Tell me.”

“We don’t know how she found out, but since she worked with your mother on occasion, we figured she just knew, seeing as how your family is full of hunters. But we do know Kate killed your mother, and poisoned the Sheriff, and burned the Hale family alive.” She glances at each member then, committing their faces to her memory. There’s one more Hale than she expected, and she can only tell by the pale colored eyes she’s a Hale too, but she doesn’t know the name.

“So you want us to come back home for a reunion and a trial and so, what, the land can have me?” Stiles asks, confused. Derek places a hand on his shoulder but he shrugs it off and stands.

“How the hell did you even find us, huh?” He asks, angrily. “I have this amazing family now, and you come here and ruin it for me?” He shouts, and Erica moves to his side but he hardly notices. “I left because Kate didn’t know how to keep her hands to herself, I left because my father was all but dead to the world and to me, I left because I needed to, and now you want me to go back?”

“Stiles,” Laura hisses, but Stiles is moving towards the door before anyone can stop him, and then he’s gone.

* * *

“Lydia?” Scott asks, waving a hand in front of his girlfriend’s wide, unseeing eyes. “Lydia, are you okay?” He places a hand on her cheek, turning her to face him. She stares on, unseeing and blinded by tears. He sighs, peppers her lips with soft kisses, whispers; “come back to me, Lydia.”

She turns away from him, frowning down at the twin graves, empty except for some beloved trinkets of Stiles’ and Allison’s. The dwindling crowd around them moves in and out of her vision, all sobbing or wiping their sadness away. The Sheriff stands towards the back of the group, shaking hands and accepting others grief, absolving them of their pain like some priest.

It drives Lydia crazy how he hasn’t gotten angry like she has, hasn’t thrown himself against a wall and cried till his throat is raw like Scott has.

She wants to push the caskets over, wants to burn them to the ground and pretend they never existed. She knows they’re not dead, she knows it like she knows Quantum Physics and Chemistry and that she’s a Banshee, but she can’t prove it, except for the constant weeping of the earth, the way she beckons for Stiles to come home and keep her company like he had all the years before. 

“Come on,” Scott says, throwing an arm over her shoulders, “let’s go home.”

Lydia doesn’t budge at first, staring hard at the gravestones as if they’ll disappear under her gaze, but that only serves to leave her with a throbbing headache. She sighs, softly, but not defeated. 

“They’re not dead, Scott.” She says finally, and Scott smiles at her sadly.

“I know,” he says, and Lydia would think he’s lying if she didn’t know him better. “I know.”

They pass the Sheriff on the way out, and the man brings Scott into a tight, rib-cracking hug. He doesn’t let go for a while, just breaths in Scott’s arms, kisses the top of his head and tries not to cry. They whisper to each other softly, so soft Lydia can’t make out a word. 

They break apart, and Lydia moves in. She grabs the Sheriff’s hand and squeezes. “They’re not dead, John.” She says, and someone beside Lydia gasps, and John stares at her, his eyes searching, like he knows something he’s not leading onto. Lydia briefly wonders what it could be, but John squeezes her hand back.

“They’ll come home soon.” He says, and Lydia accepts that, even if the people behind her don’t.

* * *

Allison finds him two days later by a frozen lake. He’s adopted his wolf-skin, buried his body and nose so deep in the snow that Allison almost doesn’t find him at first, but his coat is splattered with reds and dark browns, and the snow doesn’t make him entirely invisible no matter how hard he tries. 

She walks slowly over to his side, folds her legs under her and sits, digging her fingers into the cold, slushy ice. She doesn’t speak for what feels like hours, days, maybe, and Stiles doesn’t much mind her company. He keeps his nose buried in the snow, his hot breath melts the ice around his nose and the water drips over his muzzle at a steady pace. The sun sinks low before he lifts his head from the ice and stares at Allison expectantly. Part of him already knows what she’s going to say, but he just needs to hear it from her. 

Allison places a cooled hand on his face, wipes away the snow on his fur and smiles patiently. “Erica and Boyd wanna head back towards Beacon Hills, but they wanted me to talk to you first, you know.” She shrugs indifferently, looking contemplative. “They believe what Morrell said about Deaton, that he can help us,” she gives him a side-long glance, dips her fingers into the snow and lifts it to her face, puffing up her cheeks and blowing the fine layer away. She smiles as it falls away, lands on her exposed toes and melts on her heated skin. “And Erica wants someone there who knows what to do when she goes into labor.” She shakes her head, a guilt smile on her lips. “I’m happy for them, if a little jealous.” She smirks, shakes her head again. “I always thought I’d marry Scott.”

Stiles shivers at the name of his best friend, then buries his nose deeper in the snow. 

“We can’t run from this, Stiles.” She whispers softly, and Stiles had already decided he’s going back to Beacon Hills, if only for Allison and the hope that they can get Chris free. He’s just scared of what he’ll find when he does go back home. “We have to go back, even if it’s only for the earth’s sake,” she doesn’t smile, in fact she smells a little terrified. Stiles pulls his nose out of the snow and lays his head on her lap. She places a hand on his head, a reluctant look. “We can stay in wolf form for the rest of our lives.”

Stiles breaths slowly, let’s the water dry over his muzzle before he lifts his head off Allison, drops his wolf-skin, and sighs, shifting so he’s sitting up beside her. His fingers and toes are blue, but he doesn’t much care. He stares at the snow, gives himself time to think in this form before he turns towards Allison. 

“We have to get your dad out of prison, too.” He says, and it hurts more than he thinks it should, but the way Allison’s face lights up eases the pain just enough for him to breathe again. 

He looks back down at his hands and pulls them free of the snow. “We can check in on dad too, and maybe talk to Deaton about all this magic bullshit, and about Erica’s baby.”

Allison lays a hand between his shoulder blades comfortingly. “I’ll be right there beside you. Now come on,” she stands, motioning for him to follow you. “Derek has literally been losing his mind without you.”

Stiles grunts, shaking his head, grinning. Figures his mate would be the clingy type.

* * *

“So you found them?” Alan asks, and Marin nods, her connection freezing, fazing in and out seedily before becoming clear. “Are they coming?”

Marin doesn’t answer for a moment, and Alan fears the worst, his stomach dropping. 

“Laura has already said once they talk to Stiles and convince him, they’ll be on their way.”

“We can fly them here, if they’d like.”

“Do you think I’m some ingrate? I already offered that.” Marin rolls her eyes and waves the suggestion away. “Derek Hale is afraid of flying and Erica is more pregnant than we thought.”

Alan hums thoughtfully, smirking at his sister. “How is married life?” He asks, switching the subject, and Marin groans, rolling her eyes and biting her lip tediously. 

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” She smirks back, and Alan chuckles at her. “But it’s good, so go run and tell mom, you little sneak.” Alan blinks innocently at her on the screen of her computer, shrugging like he has no idea what she’s talking about. “Whatever. Play dumb. Liam and I are searching for a new witch to add to that coven I told you about.” 

“Ah yes,” the man grins, “Oh! Did I tell you Lydia Martin is a Banshee?” He asks, and Marin just sighs, rubbing her palms into her eyes.

“What is it with Beacon Hills producing such weird creatures?” She asks, a grin in her voice as she flails her arms. “I’m done. Just done.”

“I’m just waiting for the day Danny Mahealani realizes he’s a powerful psychic.”

“Maybe when he does, you’ll send him to me so I can add him to this bloody coven.” 

“Nope,” Marin says, the ‘p’ popping as he continues to grin. “I’m saving him for another purpose.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” She asks, leaning forward intently.

“You’re digging.” He points at her, accusingly. 

Marin smiles innocently back at him, folding her arms over her chest. Alan always gets the best things to play with. “Just tell me.” She rolls her eyes, a hint of jealousy bleeding through her voice.

“I’m hoping to make him into a seer, with the proper training. Can you imagine, Marin? A pack of wolves, a spark, a banshee, and a seer?” He has to pause for a second, catch his breath from the excitement that has been building, burning inside of him. “The Nemeton would be protected for thousands of years under their watch.”

“Thousands?” Marin scoffs, “they’re still only wolves and humans, Alan. You think the Nemeton would give them the power of immortality?” She scoffs again, this time unamused.

“If she loves them enough, she can do anything.”

Marin frowns deeply. “Well, that’s only if you can get them to come home and follow your lead.”

Alan nods seriously. But inside, his heart is beating faster than a hummingbirds.

* * *

_March_

The first thing Stiles realizes when they arrive in Beacon Hills is that the air is different; smells drier and hotter, even for springtime. The soil beneath his paws has lost its nutrients, like it’s almost been sapped completely. The wind feels suffocating, drained of oxygen. The sun feels closer, as if even in his wolf-form, his skin is pinking up dangerously.

The trees at the border are dead, their cores dried up and barks flaking away easily, exposing the inner parts of the trees. Stiles drops his wolf-skin and places his hand on the trunk of one dead tree sadly. He feels no life thrumming within and wretches his hand away, feeling instead the sting of death surrounding him.

Laura’s at his side then, looking older than she had when they met. “The land remembers,” she whispers, and it’s almost as if she breathes with the forest; and life begins to find it’s way back into the roots of the trees around them. Stiles can feel it then, feels the power that’s clinging to the pads of his feet, crawling up his legs, swirling in his stomach, tickling his nose and vibrating in his palms.

The wind blows again, this time minutely cooler, carrying with it the sound of the woman crying. Goosebumps overtake his skin and he shivers, waits for the sound to vanish. 

“Wow,” Boyd breaths, sheading his wolf-skin. He stands on his human feet and places a hand to the trunk of one of the nearby trees. “Can you guys feel that?” His brows furrow deeply. He strains to think, his mouth feeling dry and raw with every breath. 

Derek looks like he’s about to raddle out of his bones with dread. Cora looks contemplative. Stiles just feels anxious.

“It’s never felt this powerful before. I never even noticed it.” He says, coming to stand beside Boyd, pulling his hand off the dead tree. Boyd places an arm around the younger mans shoulders, squeezes gently. 

“Maybe what Morrell said about you is true. Maybe you do belong here, with your ancestors.” 

Stiles bites his lip. Remaining in a place like this? Covered with the death of his family, the death of _Derek’s_ family hanging like a black cloud over him? He doesn’t know if he can find it in himself to stay in Beacon Hills.

Laura nods, back on her heels, examining the roots of another tree. “I’ve never felt it like this before either.” She whispers, digging her hands into the soil. “I don’t understand,” she confesses, confused.

“Well, I mean, we only stayed in Beacon Hills until those two could open their eyes. Maybe we just weren’t paying enough attention?” Isaac offers, and Allison nods, her hand curling around his bicep, as if he were the only thing holding her in place.

“It’s creepy.” Allison whimpers, looking from one tree to the next. Cora nods in agreement, looking around her. 

“Look at that,” Cora points at the roots of one of the tree. It’s shriveled up and pulled back, as if peeled from the earth itself. “Wow.”

Stiles sighs, scratching the back of his head. He glances back at Derek, who is the only one still wearing his wolf-skin, aside from Erica. He’s staring at his paws, digging them further and further into the soil absently. Stiles shrugs out from under Boyd’s massive arm and goes over to Derek’s side, places a hesitant hand on his mate’s shoulder.

“Der?” He asks quietly, petting the thickened coat. The whole group is still in the process of sheading their winter coats, and when Stiles pulls his hands away, his mate’s dark hair catches between the creases in his fingers, clinging desperately. “Derek, come on.” He smiles softly. Coming back here, well, this can’t be any easier for him than it is for Stiles.

Derek slowly shakes away his wolf-skin, falling back onto his heels and staring up at Stiles with open, honest eyes. “If you want to stay here, I’ll stay with you.” He says, swallowing thickly. 

Stiles pats his mate’s shoulder gently, unsure. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?” He says, and stands, pulling Derek with him.

Laura smiles weakly. “Come on,” she says, motioning for the pack to follow her. “Last time we were all here, we left our clothes at the house. We’ll dig them up and head into town to see Deaton.” She grins at Erica, “and I’m sure we have something that will fit you.” She rubs Erica’s swollen belly in slow, loving circles as she passes the female beta. Erica blushes, and Boyd grins. “And you, too, little sis.” She grins at Cora, who just rolls her eyes. They follow their Alpha deeper into the forest. 

Isaac and Allison hang back, leaning their foreheads into each other and whispering softly. “I’ll stay too, if you decide you want to…” he sighs, chuckling softly. “I used to live here, I think I could start a life here, with you, i-if you—“

Allison giggles, placing a finger over Isaac’s babbling lips. “If my brother decides to, we will. Okay?” She kisses him softly before following after Laura, her fingertips brushing the back of Stiles’ neck, encouraging him on as well. 

Stiles waves her away, smiling at his sister stiffly. 

Derek and he lag behind the group, arms intertwined and with Stiles leaning most of his weight on Derek, just for the sake of being closer to him. Derek pulls his closer, slots their mouths together and breathes with him. Stiles deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue between their mouths, moaning as Derek’s tongue slid against his. Stiles’ hands came up to frame his mate’s face. Derek growls in his throat, the sound vibrating within Stiles’ core. Derek moves slowly, never breaks their kiss, presses Stiles up against the nearest tree; his weight an anchor against whatever doubt Stiles has about coming back to Beacon Hills. 

Stiles pushes back roughly, eagerly clawing at Derek as they fall to the ground, spread out over the forest floor. Stiles crawls between Derek’s legs, which is enough to make Derek feel breathless, his mouth. Stiles’ hands moved over Derek’s body like a wildfire, his tongue like lava that leaves wet, hot trails in its wake. 

The moans that crawl out of Derek’s throat wake the forest from its slumber, makes the birds weep and mourn the beautiful sounds. Stiles relishes in the way his heart flutters when he pushes inside Derek, feels the warmth that encases him, keeps him grounded inside his mate. Each thrust pulls at his core, and it’s a little drier than he’d like, a smidge painful, but he presses on, pushes into Derek in quick, fevered thrusts that make him sing his mate’s praise. A wave of heat builds in his lower abdomen, Derek egging him on to move harder, faster, God, _Stiles_ , yes. His teeth latch onto Stiles’ neck, lengthening to sharp fangs as they move to his arms, chest, collarbone, leave red and purple marks that fade almost instantly. Derek’s eyes grow hungry with the challenge to leave something more permanent, his teeth pressing into tender skin, coating Derek’s tongue with coppery drops of blood.

Stiles hisses, pins him down, rolls his hips harder, relishing the punched-out gasp Derek breaths against his lips, and it’s enough to push Stiles over the edge when Derek arches his back and throws his head back, his neck exposed as Stiles fucks Derek through his orgasm, his come splattering between them, coating their chests and stomach. Derek pushes himself closer to Stiles, lifts his hips into Stiles and clenching around the bulge that builds at the base of Stiles cock, pulsing inside him and filling him full. Derek releases a high whine that sounds more wolfish than man, grinding himself down deeper, pleading with Stiles in soft babbles of soundless words.

They lay there for a while afterwards, connected and breathing heavily, rocking softly against each other until they come again, pushing and pulling and hissing softly. Stiles bends then, dipping his head to clean up the mess Derek made on his own chest and stomach, his tongue lapping over Derek’s peaked nipples. 

“Stiles,” his mate calls, hisses, fingers tugging at the short hairs at the back of the younger man’s head. Stiles hums, dragging his tongue up his mate’s torso, kissing his neck before meeting his eyes.

“Hmm?” He asks, and Derek smiles softly.

“Are you nervous?” He wonders, placing an arm behind his head to cushion the ground beneath him. “You only even clean me up like this when you need time to think and need me to be quiet.” He smirks cockily.

“You’re always quiet.” Stiles grins, rolling his eyes.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Stiles groans in defeat, pulling himself out of Derek’s loosened hole slowly, causing the older man to hiss at the emptiness and growl lowly, flashing molten gold eyes at him. His dick twitches at the sight, but Stiles shakes his head, breathing through the wave of lust that moves over him. Derek quirks a brow at him, as if waiting for him to reply. 

“Fine,” Stiles nods his head, looking constipated and fearful, as well as angry and irritated. “I’m nervous we’ll run into my dad, or worse, what if we see Scott?” Stiles covers his eyes, rubs his temples and closes his eyes. “God, I hope I don’t run into Scott.”

“And Scott, he’s…?”

“My best friend.” Stiles rolls his eyes, again, annoyed. “We’ve talked about him.”

“Oh yes, several times.” Derek nods seriously, his smile thin.

Stiles sputters, looks at him long and hard. “Oh my _god,_ you’re _jealous!”_ He laughs loudly, and Derek scowls at him, looking away, embarrassed.

“I don’t know why I love you.” He hisses, stands with a glare, rolling to his heels and walking away. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Baby, wait!” Stiles calls, laughing, stumbling to his feet and chasing his mate. “It’s okay, you’re my one and only.” He places a soft kiss to his mate’s neck, giggling to himself still, even as Derek’s neck heats up and he hides his smile with a sheepish bow of his head. “It’s cute you’re jealous of Scott. He’d probably be jealous of you too.” He flinches then, adding; “and Isaac.”

“Scott was Allison’s boyfriend before.” Derek tries again, this time less grumpy.

Stiles shrugs, unsure. “Kinda. They liked each other, but, you know.” Stiles shrugs again. “Kate and Dad, and school, and Allison and I were just trying to survive the summer.”

Derek growls lowly at the mention of Kate, his brows drawing together in a way that suggests he just might revert back into himself. Stiles sighs and grabs his hand, tugging him close. “Hush, Sourwolf.” He smiles sadly. “But, you know, thank you.” Stiles scratches the back of his head, tugging at the short hairs there till he’s certain they’ll rip out if he doesn’t stop. “For everything, and for coming back here, when I knew you didn’t want to.”

The older man scoffs, rolls his eyes in mock-annoyance, “Stiles, I would follow you anywhere. Even here.”

* * *

Scott sighs sadly as Lydia’s gaze drifts farther away, her body growing rigid against him. She does this sometimes, and it takes a while for Scott to get her back from her own mind. She gets lost for hours, her eyes blinking slowly, unfocused, and all Scott can do is to just sits with her patiently. He plays with her hair and her hands, touches her lips lightly, waits till she comes back to him, exhausted and a little sad and perhaps a little less _his_ Lydia than before. 

He places a warm hand on her arm, moves it over her skin before taking her limp, delicate fingers into his palm and presses his thumb into the pads on her fingers. He knows something’s going on with Beacon Hills, and he’s known it for a while now. He can see the way the trees are dying in the Preserve, the way they rot from the inside out, can feel the air suffocate and burn around him. He can see the way it effects Lydia, the way Deaton panics and hides in his office, reads over ancient books and frowns, can see the way John’s face grows taunt and anxious when he drives past the forest, his eyes hopeful and sad.

Lydia can hear it now, can feel it in her bones, and it’s stunning—the silence that’s normally filled with a gentle weeping, the woman growing quiet and pleased in her mind. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Scott asks, sadness ebbing off of him in waves. “Come back to my, Lydia, please?” He begs, bows his head to rest against her shoulder.

He sounds like he’s a million miles away, under water, bubbles floating up from his words.

Lydia concentrates more, follows the sound of the woman as she hums contently, her energy flowing towards someone—someone in the forest, naked and laughing loudly. His laugh makes Lydia’s heart skip a beat. It’s a boy with a wolfish smile and yellow-gold eyes, a Spark in the center of his chest at glows red hot, burns like fire, shatters like lightening, vibrates like _life_. 

Lydia looks up as Deaton enters the exam room. He turns to stare at her, waiting patiently as she comes around, her mouth opening before her conscious completely replaces itself within her. He cocks a brow at Scott who just sits backs, staring at her, egging her on softly. She tilts her head at him, gasping as she fully reenters her body.

“Scott.” She says, turning towards him with an easy smile. “Stiles and Allison are alive and they’re back, I can feel it, and if you want to find them, you’ll follow me out to the car and Deaton will drive us to the Preserve.” She glances at the older man, who smirks at her knowingly.

Scott stares at her for a moment, blinking repeatedly before everything she’s said catches up with him and registers. 

Lydia waits patiently, just as Scott had done for her on several times.

Scott shakes his head, the fog clearing. He turns to Deaton, who shrugs and turns towards his office, searching for his keys, mumbling about banshees and werewolves.

Scott turns back towards Lydia, before his lips split into a grin. “Okay,” he say, taking her hand and pulling her along with him. “Let’s go.”

He pulls out his phone and dials the Sheriff’s number. “Stiles is back,” he says into the receiver before John can form a syllable of the word _hello_. “He’s in the Preserve. Meet us at the gas station just before.” He hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

Lydia smiles at him. “We have so much to talk about.” She sighs, and Scott just scoffs at her.

“Oh, I’m not as stupid as you may think, babe.” He rolls his eyes. “If you think for one minute I haven’t noticed how weird Beacon Hills is, you’re wrong. I’ve grown up here my whole life. I’m pretty sure everyone that Deaton is some weird witch-crafty-voodoo-man.”

Lydia sighs, tucking a strand of her boyfriends’ hair behind his ear, patting it into place as she kisses him passionately. “At least you’re pretty.” She grins when Scott scoffs, grabs his hand and tugs him along outside the metal door of Deaton’s office when he begins honking the horn of his car irritably.

* * *

Parrish stares at his computer, typing words into a document that feels almost like a routine now. He sighs, racking his fingers over his scalp, rubbing his eyes free of the blinding computer screen. He leans back in his chair, sighing loudly, rolling his neck around on his shoulders and tries to concentrate again. 

Marie at the receptionist desk looks over at him with interest before turning back to filing her nails.

He glances at the other Officers at their desks, all sharing a matching look of disinterest and boredom. His eyes skim over the Sheriff in his office, sitting behind a desk, filling out paperwork, then glancing up as his office phone rings. He sighs, put upon, and answers.

From the way his face lights up just the tiniest bit, it’s probably Scott he’s talking to. The kid is the closest thing he has to his own son, seeing as how they were childhood friends. Suddenly the Sheriff’s face draws in, his mouth a hard line and he closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. Parrish quirks a brow curiously. John’s lips only move slightly then, his words unheard, and he leans back in his chair, looking uneasy. He breathes then, chuckles, then hangs up.

His shoulders shake, and Parrish isn’t sure if the older man is crying or laughing, but he stands then, grabbing his uniform jacket and pulling it on over his shoulders. He places sunglasses on his face, reaches for his keys and exits his office. He walks to the front with a curious smile on his face, bows his head to Marie politely, and leaves the station without so much as a second glance.

Parrish turns back to his computer miserably, hands ready to type, and pauses, finding that he can’t even remember what he’d been typing in the first place.

* * *

Laura pulls up the cellar door and pauses for a moment, sniffing the air before she hops down the ten feet to the bottom and looks around, followed closely by a curious Allison.

“What is it?” Erica asks, and Allison’s nose is in the air, sniffing feverishly. Her mouth grows dry, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. 

“It’s Scott.” She says softly, and Isaac quirks a brow at her from beside Erica, confused and a little jealous that she can recall her old semi-boyfriends’ scent so easily. “He was here, a long time ago.” She sighs softly, “he touched something.” She moves beside Laura to their pile of clothes. She runs her hands over the clothes in the corner, pulling Stiles’ red hoodie free, bringing it to her nose and sniffing at the scent of her first love as it gladly climbs up her nose and down her throat. She vibrates out of her skin, smiling fondly. “He was searching for us.” She says. She places the hoodie back on the pile, her fingers lingering over the material just briefly before they all hear Derek and Stiles come stumbling in the house, padding slowly along the wooden floors and down the hall to the group over wolves. 

Laura grins happily, seeing her brothers smiling face peering down at her. Beside him, Stiles has grown stoic and is staring at Allison. The boy’s sister tosses up the hoodie then, Stiles catching it in midair with deft reflexes.

“Scott was here. He found our clothes.” She smiles sadly, and Stiles brings the material to his nose, mirroring Allison’s pervious actions. It’s a faded scent, but still there, just barely behind the months of dust and seasonal scents that had come and gone.

Laura and Allison toss up the rest of the group’s clothes then, and everyone dresses quickly enough. 

Erica frowns down at her clothes, seeing no point in pulling on pants that ultimately she knows wouldn’t fit her even if she put the effort in to get them on. She sighs in defeat and sits down at the opening of the cellar, handing the clothes that are tossed up to their respective owners. Stiles notices Erica’s sullen mood and moves past her, touching her shoulder as he jumps down to the cellar and searching for his bag. He knows he packed a pair of sweatpants, just in case, and he finds them easily enough. They’re a soft, grey material, and on the thigh the faded BHPD symbol stands out proudly. He grins fondly and throws them up towards Erica and smiles at her as she pulls them on, making eager grabby hands for a shirt. Allison offers her a bra, but Erica only snorts, and rolls her eyes. She had a bigger cup size that Allison before she was even pregnant and shakes her head at the outstretched offering. She takes the plain black shirt Stiles hands her and smiles at him appreciatively, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“You still smell like gross sex,” she says, patting his hair down, giggling manically when he blushes. 

Cora takes the clothes Allison passes her gratefully, slipping on the tank top and awkward shorts. “I’m a little bit taller than you,” Allison says bashfully, biting her lip. “I hope they fit decently enough.” Cora chuckles, folds Allison into a hug and smiles.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine.” She reassures.

Stiles fiddles with his red hoodie, pulling it over his clothed body. Fabric feels itchy against his skin, almost constrictive. It’d been a few months since he’d worn clothes, but he did kind of miss them, honestly. He sighs as Allison passes around a brush, watching as the woman rip the snarls and tangles and little sticks and leaves from their scalps with matching hissing noises falling from their lips.

The pack moves then, toeing their way through the forest in clothes that smell of ash and burnt wood and dust. 

“My feet are swollen.” Erica complains, frowning down at her puffy ankle skin like she can frighten them into returning to their normal size. “Pregnancy is so much easier in wolf form.”

Laura giggles and throws an arm over her pack mates’ shoulder, squeezing encouragingly. “Have you thought of any names yet?” She asks, and Boyd shrugs easily.

“Some, but not many. We’re waiting to see if it’s a boy or a girl before we officially decide.”

“I think Stiles is a perfect name for any baby.” Stiles quips, earning a soft chuckle from Derek.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, what _is_ a Stiles?” Isaac asks, grinning cockily. 

“Wha—how could you—I-I am, I’m a Stiles.” Stiles rolls his eyes, gesturing wildly at himself, as if the answer were obvious enough.

The group giggles at that, reaching the edge of the Preserve—just as a car pulls up beside them. 

The pack stills and the doors opens, a redheaded girl flying out of the passenger side of the car, her eyes wide and calculating. 

“Stiles?” Lydia asks, her breath catching as she takes in the sight of the teenager before her—how he’d changed, grown more, let his hair hang down around his face and his cheek bones sharpen. Derek growls lowly in his chest, standing more in front of Stiles protectively.

The group turns to look at their pack mate, then Laura, stunned and unsure of what to do. Should they run? Should they stay? 

“Lydia?” Stiles asks softly, moving out from behind Derek, placing a hand on his mates’ bicep, frowning at the redhead. 

Deaton stands from the car then, craning his neck at the exchange. Laura stiffens, Derek mimicking her actions. Lydia grins and runs to Stiles, ignoring the warning snarls coming from Cora as she pulls him into her arms. 

“I knew she would call you back, I could feel her, Stiles, I could feel her calling for you.” She mutters into Stiles neck, her eyes pricking with tears that roll down her cheeks and melt into the material of his hoodie.

“W-what?” Stiles asks, pulling away from her. “What are you talking about?”

Lydia chuckles wetly, tapping his head. “The weeping?” She asks, and Stiles nods with furrowed brows, confusion clear on her face, “it’s the earth, or more specifically—“ she points at something off to his right, and he turns to gap at it.

There, at the edge of the Preserve, is a wide tree, cut down at the base. “It’s the Nemeton,” Lydia whispers, her eyes glossy and clear, her smile wide and knowing. “She’s been calling for you since the day you left.”

Derek’s at his side then, pulling him away from the girl slowly, protectively. Lydia looks up at him in alarm and backs away slowly, but her eyes linger on Stiles with clear defiance. 

“Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton calls, coming around the front of his car. He moves like a cat, all grace and elegance, and Stiles has known this man his whole life, yet never really _met_ him till now. The older man watches the rest of the pack, his eyes scanning them before landing on Laura. “Miss Hale. If you’d please, could you all come with me? We have much to discuss.” His eyes move to Erica, and her lips pull back in a silent snarl. Boyd moves in front of her, his eyes flashing warningly.

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat as the next car that pulls up behind Deaton’s car. It’s a police cruiser with two people inside. He can already smell who’s inside the car, and his heart hammers against his ribcage, beating too fast for him to control.

Derek pulls his mate into his chest, flashing yellow eyes at the two strange newcomers as they emerge. Allison comes up beside him, her eyes yellow in the light and her brows creased tight above her eyes. The man in the cruiser gets out then, his eyes roaming over Allison and Stiles, before he brings a hand to his mouth, his bright eyes wide and dilated, narrowing in on the children before him.

“Allison?” The man says softly, “Stiles?” He chokes out in a frightful sob.

A boy with tanned skin and chocolate brown hair hops out of the cruiser, too, running up to the pack without a care in the world. Laura growls softly in her throat, but she knows a loosing battle when she sees one. The boy jumps on Stiles, his arms encircling Derek as well as he sobs into Stiles neck.

“Scott,” Stiles croaks, sooths the boy, _Scott_ , and Derek releases Stiles then, moving to Laura’s side as the two of them fall to the forest floor. Derek feels conflicted, having someone else who isn’t pack touching his mate, but he knows this isn’t his place to protest now.

The older man moves then too, too slow, then too quickly, and Derek can see the resembles between his mate and the older man, and his heart aches at the way the older man’s eyes drip with tears that are too big, too angry, and too sorrowful to be tears of any parent. John grabs Allison and curls himself around the two boys and holds them tight, keeping them whole and together. Allison finally breaks apart, splits open and sobs, her voice breaking as her hands move through Scott’s short hair and cling to her father’s shoulders.

Stiles’ skin feels tight, too constrictive and suffocating. The boy sucks in a hissed breath through his clenched teeth. “Dad,” Stiles whimpers weakly, sounding wrecked. His skin begins to shake, his bones aching to fall apart, and he shoves himself away from his father, groaning against the man’s tight hold. 

“Stiles!” John begs, knowing what’s about to happen, his eyes red with tears.

The younger man changes forms before their eyes, his panic tangible and heady, heavy in the air with his fear, as he slides around on the forest floor, desperately trying to find his feet before running in the opposite direction. Even in this form, Derek can hear as Stiles begins gasping for desperate air, his vision tunneling as he darts away.

Lydia calls him back desperately, but she doesn’t move to go after him. Scott screams and jumps up, chasing him as far into the forest as he can till he no longer sees him, and the father, who hadn’t moved a muscle, only sobs into his hands and curls closer to Allison, who strokes her father’s hair soothingly, whispering soft, calming words. 

Derek looks at Laura and Cora, panic is his voice. “Laura, I have to go after him.” He says, and Laura nods, taking her brothers hands in hers. 

“Go, but once you find him, bring him to the vet’s. Then we’ll figure out what to do. I’ll take his father and friends with us to Deaton’s.” She glances at the three new people, frowns when she sees them collectively falling apart.

Derek’s running before she finishes talking, changing forms mid-stride and running after his devastated mate. He catches his scent, follows him miles and miles into the Preserve before he finally finds him with a relieved sigh. 

He’s curled in on himself, shaking and writhing on the ground, fluttering between man and beast, gasping painfully at the abrupt, chaotic changes. His claws dig into the soil as he strains, his body contorts, seizes up when his muscles spasm, looking painful. Stiles looks up at Derek as the man approaches slowly, cautiously, looking half mad with one yellow eye and one brown, a half-snarl-half-whimper stuck on his lips. 

“Stiles,” Derek whispers, kneeling beside the younger man, his hand hovering over his mate’s body uneasily. He feels the warm change of the boy’s struggling skin beneath his fingers in a way that makes his heart clench. “Baby,” he pulls the younger man closer, fights against Stiles fighting against him, puts his lips to the other man’s neck and breaths with him until his mate’s muscles stop quivering and he sags into Derek’s body. 

After all, he’d done the same for Laura when she was forced to listen to their family’s screams as their house went up in flames in front of them.

* * *

“Where have you two been this whole time?” John asks, holding Allison close as they cuddle together on the small couch within Deaton’s office. 

“Oh, everywhere, dad. You wouldn’t believe it.” She’s smiling, talking softly. Scott is on her other side, with Isaac at her feet, sulking. “Laura led us through Canada, to New York. We stopped by the ocean. The mountains, the streams, the rivers.” Her eyes spark with the memories, and Erica giggles lightly. “We hunted wild deer, met with strange packs. Oh, one time Derek fought a beer, and Laura killed it. It was huge, dad, _huge_!” 

“Sounds… adventurous.” He offers, and Isaac chuckles at his feet, stroking her ankle. 

Lydia sits with Boyd and Erica and Laura, gazing at the three of them. “So you’re the Alpha?” She offers, turning to Laura, who nods with a soft smile. “And the man with you, Derek, he’s your brother?” Laura nods again, and Lydia grins. “He’s Stiles’ mate, right?” Laura nods again, this time slower, slightly skeptical. “He picked well. Stiles is, well, different.”

“Wait.” John looks up, his brows furrowed. “So, mates, that’s a thing?” John asks, perplexed, and the pack giggles collectively.

“More or less,” Laura offers. He remembers her from the fire, back when he was just a Deputy. He remembers the look of utter desperation pained across her as the fire consumed everything she knew. And now that John’s had a good look at her, he can see that he vaguely recognizes her from somewhere else—somewhere, somehow, he knows those cheek bones and jaw structure, he know those _eyes_ —somewhere, somewhere. 

“Erica and Boyd have been mates for a while now, but they were dating long before we turned them.” She shrugs, then turns to Allison. “Allison and Isaac have been mates for just a few months.” John turns his eyes down to Isaac, who grins sheepishly up at him. John will have to have a sit down talk with him and this Derek kid, soon. “And Derek and Stiles—well.” Laura bites her lip, looking small. “Derek was courting him, long before we offered him the bite. Derek’s always been drawn towards the fearlessness and loyalty in Stiles’ heart. But once he was turned, he claimed Derek as his.” She looks over at Cora and smiles sadly. Cora smiles back half-heartedly. They’re the only ones without mates—and that makes her flinch inwardly.

John grunts, smiling. “Sounds like him.” He strokes Allison’s hair lovingly, happy to have her back in his arms. “How come you never called?” He asks quietly, glancing over at Laura once more. For some odd reason he keeps thinking of Claudia whenever he looks at Laura, and he can’t figure out why. He hums to himself thoughtfully—somewhere, somewhere, he knows her from somewhere, _for sure_.

Allison frowns down at her hands, her eyes flashing gold before flickering back to brown. “Dad, we—we thought you would have died by now. Kate—“ She rubs her arms nervously, the heat of Kate’s swings still a memory that burns bright in her mind’s eye. “Stiles and I couldn’t take it anymore. She wouldn’t let us come into your room. She wouldn’t let us talk to you. She wouldn’t let us leave the house. We couldn’t have friends.” She looks over at Lydia and Scott, watching her. Her eyes begin to water and Isaac moves to her side, sliding between Scott and her and pulling her hands into his lap, whimpering into her hair in tiny huffs. “You don’t know what she did to us, dad.” She wipes at her eyes viciously, laughing without humor. “We handled it well enough, we were both old enough, we knew that was Kate was doing was wrong, and we were innocent and didn’t deserve it.” She laughs again, her heart aching within her ribcage. “I know sometimes Stiles shies away from loud noises, or flinches when someone moves too quickly for his liking, and I know I still have a few things to work on because of Kate.” She looks up at Laura, who’s smiling sadly back at her, “but with what she was doing to us, we figured she’d all but killed you, so we ran and never looked back until now.”

John tenses beside her, and strokes her arm lovingly. “She nearly did, you know.” He says softly. Laura looks at him fondly, her chin resting on Cora’s head, who’s remained silent through out the majority of the time. It’s one more Hale than before, and John is happy for them—he really is.

Allison doesn’t smile, but she grips his hand in hers. “Stiles and Derek should be back soon.” She says, and John leans his head against her shoulder. He hopes they will be.

Laura’s eyes flash red absently, and John gasps— _that’s where he knows her from_. Laura looks up at him in shock, her hands in front of her mouth; “sorry, sorry,” she says, softly, eagerly, making Cora and Erica laugh at her. “I forget you’re not one of us.” She raps her nose with her forefinger, “Stiles smells like you, so, erm…” She shrugs, looking sheepish and small once more.

John clears his throat, shakes his head vehemently when she continues to try to apologize. “No, no, that’s not it at all, Laura.” He grins, seeing her visibly relax. “You used to work down at the art supply shop, when you were a teenager, right?” He asks, and Laura squints at him, smirking.

“Yeah, from the time I was sixteen to the time I was nineteen, right before the fire.” She squints at him again, this time with a question in her eyes. “Why’d you ask?”

John shakes his head, smirking sadly. Laura Hale, sweet, kind, Laura Hale, had been Chris Argent’s muse in his early paintings—the woman who ran with wolves and bathed in streams with glowing red eyes—the ones Claudia loved most of all. John wonders silently if Chris’ heart broke when he found out Laura was part of a family of werewolves, or if he’d always known she was a wolf, and never really cared. 

He wondered then, his thoughts turning dark, if Kate’s hatred burned the Hale family to the ground, or if it was truly over her brother’s love for one of them.

* * *

Stiles’ breathing eventually evens out, his body stops shifting and his eyes quit flickering. He turns tense and stoically in Derek’s arms, just breathing softly, his mouth open and warm, hot air caresses the side of Derek’s neck in quick secession. His mate’s scent is enough to calm him, but his heart still beats erratically in his chest.

“Too much at one time?” Derek asks gently, his hands rubbing soft, gentle circles into his mate’s back. Stiles nods, but doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes and lets the exhaustion ride itself out. 

Derek sighs, leaning his head into Stiles’ cheek. “My father used to bake the best strawberry rhubarb pie.” He whispers lovingly, “but only after full moons, and only if we begged. That’s why Laura liked Jennifer’s so much.”

Stiles doesn’t move, but the corner of his lips pull up in a soft grin against Derek’s neck. “Cora used to chew furniture when she was younger. Our mother never let us get a dog because Cora was already teething worse than any puppy ever would.” 

Stiles grins more at that, chuckling breathlessly. 

Derek kept going. “When we were kids, Laura used to pick her nose and wipe the buggers on the walls.” 

“Oh gross.” Stiles groans, chuckling. He turns in Derek’s arms then, gazing at the older man affectionately before kissing him. It’s just a soft, chaste kiss that wasn’t anything more than a dry press of lips. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles begins, but Derek only shakes his head. “It was just—yeah, just—too much all at once. With Lydia, and Dad, and Scott, and just…” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t do it. I’m not strong enough. He—“ Stiles chokes back a stifling sob, making him sound like a wounded animal, causing Derek’s arms to tighten around him again. “—my dad was just supposed to die, Derek. I wasn’t supposed to come back here. Ever.”

“I know,” Derek says, softly, “I know.” He tightens his arms around his mate, pulls him into his chest and rests his chin on Stiles’ head, breathing in the soft scent of his hair—grass, leaves, tree bark, soil. “When you’re ready, we’ll go back, okay?” He kisses the top of Stiles’ head and continues to rub soothing circles into the younger man’s back. 

Stiles noses under Derek’s jaw, kisses his pulse point and curls closer to him, closing his eyes and ignoring the outside world. “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move, and Derek just closes his eyes, too.

The moon is high over their heads by the time he wakes up again. Stiles shakes his head and meets Derek’s watchful eyes, glowing in the low light like a predator. He rubs his face, scratching his nails over his scalp. “How long have you been watching me?” He asks, his words slurred.

Derek shrugs, fighting back a smile at the sleep-mussed hair that Stiles sports so elegantly. “Come on,” he stands, offering Stiles a hand. Stiles grumbles unhappily, but he takes the hand and stands.

They walk silently back to the spot were Stiles dropped his clothes during his shift, and they dress themselves back up in their appropriate clothes. “At least we were naked when my dad saw us.” He jest, and Derek blushes, watches Stiles throw back his head and laugh gleefully. He grins at the long line of Stiles’ neck and the broad expansion of muscle at his shoulders, thinking silently; _mine_. 

Stiles glares over at him playfully, slipping on his shoes and scratching at the material at the creases of his arms. “Well come on then!” He says, jogging off onto the highway towards Deaton, and, inevitably, his father and friends, but also his pack.

* * *

“So, tell me about my dad.” Allison begs, and John stutters awake form his half-sleep. He checks his watch eagerly, frowning when he realizes they’ve been waiting for five hours. He sighs sadly, looking around at the rest of the people in the office with him. 

Cora and Laura have just woken up with him, startled awake by Allison’s words. Erica and Boyd have taken up a section of the couch, sleeping soundly. Lydia and Allison are in front of him, playing with each other’s hair while Scott and Isaac watch. Allison nudges him again, eyes wide.

“Oh, yes, well,” John rubs a hand over his face, checks his breath before he says anything. “I don’t know what Deaton’s sister told you, but we tested the tub for aconite, which is apparently pretty deadly for, uh—for your kind,” he quirks a brow at Laura, who nods, motioning for him to continue sleepily. “Anyways, it tested positive. I talked to Chris about it, and he said that I’d have to get in touch with the counsel, seeing as how this can’t really involve regular police involvement, and they’ll hunt down Kate and question her and decide her fate, based on our findings and theirs.” The Sheriff scrubs a hand over his face again, the skin of his palm catches on the five o’clock at his cheeks and chin. “This counsel, it has lawyers and police agencies and the like at their disposal, all of whom know about the supernatural world, so once they confirm everything, they can get Chris out of jail, so now it’s just a waiting game.” He looks over at Allison, and his heart breaks just the slightest bit at the excitement in her eyes.

“So he can have a life again, he’ll be free?” She asks, breathlessly. “I always knew he couldn’t have—“ her voice breaks, and Isaac places a hand on the back of her neck. She grins through her watery eyes, blinks back tears and refuses to let them fall for the third time in one day. Instead, she lurches forward and wraps her arms around the Sheriff’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispers into John’s neck. 

John grins, patting her back. She won’t be his daughter anymore, when Chris get’s released, and though it’ll break his heart to give his only daughter away, he can see how much this means to her, and he can overlook his jealousy. Every father deserves their children’s love—and that thought leads him back to Stiles, and the fact that he’s in a relationship with an Alpha’s brother; a man—though that isn’t much of a surprise—and the fact that he’d run away with a group of people he hadn’t even really known.

As if on cue, Stiles and Derek meekly walk into the back door of Deaton’s office. Lydia stands quickly, grinning madly. Scott follows his girlfriend, approaching Stiles more cautiously. Stiles sighs, resigned, and curls an arm around both of them and pulls them flush against him. “I’m sorry I freaked out,” he whispers, and Scott chuckles, slapping his back probably rougher than he needed to.

“Good to have you back. Don’t ever do that again.” He waggles a finger in Stiles face, and Stiles rolls his eyes, snapping at the digit with his teeth and giggling with Lydia, who whispers, softly; “missed you,” and leans her forehead against his and stares into his eyes. Stiles can sense it when he’s this close to her, can smell the wicked pull of her magic against his skin. He flashes his golden eyes at her, grinning mischievously. She gasps at him, covering her mouth with her hand and shoving his face away gently, turning back towards Scott with a beautiful grin that could level a kingdom. 

“So this is a thing, huh?” Stiles asks, gesturing between them. Scott blushes and looks away, scratching the back of his head. 

“Y-yeah,” he answers, stuttering. “For a while now.”

Stiles grins and pats his friends shoulder. “I’m happy for you.” He glances at Lydia, who’s staring at him with an unknown soft look in her eyes, “both of you.” 

He moves past them and see Allison beside their father, who looks cautious and scared and possibly a little angry and a lot relieved. Stiles’ eyes prick with pressure that builds slowly, looking at the older man. The atmosphere gets thicker, tangible and sticky, and then Derek’s at his side, gripping his hand in an iron vice. He pulls him closer to the older man, who stands slowly, extending his arms, and before he knows it, Derek is shoving him at his father with a warm smile. 

“Stiles.” His father’s breathe washes over him, and it’s warm and his voice is tight, and his hands stroke down Stiles’ head and keep him close. “I’ve missed you so much.”

 _You should be dead,_ Stiles thinks, turning his nose into his fathers neck, _I could smell you dying, even when I was human,_ he doesn’t say. He curls his hand into his father’s jacket and holds him close, even when the Sheriff pulls away and claps him on the shoulder, holds him an arm distance away and smiles, water in his eyes and lips turned up in a weak, weary smile. “Look how much you’ve grown. And your hair!” He runs his fingers over his sons’ scalp, the hair having grown an extra three or four inches from the last time he’d seen him. 

Stiles grins back at his father, his mouth moving before he can think. “I missed you too,” he says, but he keeps it short, because he knows everyone is here, watching them with tension in their veins and uncertainty in their eyes. He still can’t believe he’s even here.

“H-how long are you staying?” John asks, thrusting his hands in his pocket and looking up at Stiles with a sheepishly small grin. 

Stiles doesn’t answer, because that’s when Deaton clears his throat, drawing the attention towards him. He has in his hands a rolled up scroll, one that he’s holding gingerly. “About time.” He looks at Stiles pointedly, then extends the scroll to him. “I actually can give you an answer,” he says, his left brow quirked in a way that suggests that maybe he’s holding all the cards, and that makes Stiles gulp nervously.

Deaton lays the scroll out flat on his desk, placing paperweight at each of the corners so it doesn’t roll back up on them. He points at a name, and Cora whistles low. Stiles knows it’s his real name, and he groans at the fact that everyone can see it.

John looks up at Cora, but she only shrugs. “What are you guys, Polish?” She grunts, “look at these _names._ Can I buy a vowel?” She giggles at herself and everyone else cracks a smile. Boyd and Erica have woken up and crowded around that scroll, curious as well.

John shakes his head reluctantly. “Polish, Scandinavian, Czech, you name it.” He turns his head to look at the names on the paper. A lot of old blood comes with these names; a lot of family curses, too, he’s sure.

“We traced your lineage back as far as we could.” Deaton says, pointing at the very last name on a page, the first in the tree—Jaroslaw Mzriekz. Stiles stared at the name long and hard, but nothing came to mind. It’s an ancestor, simple as that, and not one he’d ever thought anything of, or even probably heard. Deaton continues as the pack and his family gather around the table, staring down at the paper. “She was the first of your family to arrive from the old lands, and her blood remains in the soil here. As long as someone with her blood remains here, the Nemeton will thrive, and so will Beacon Hills.”

“Why is it important for the Nemeton to thrive?” Stiles asks, his brows drawn together. Derek and Laura shuffle at his side, glancing at each other through long lashes and pointed stares.

Deaton smirks, half-heartedly. “Think of her as a conduit. With you here, she is safe, she can direct her energy towards you and you do with it as you please.” He gestures towards the pack, “with you gone, her energy can’t find an outlet, and she draws others here who don’t know what to do with the extra energy she provides them, and they can then pose a threat to everyone.” He points at another name on the paper, and Stiles cringes. “Claudia Stilinski was the last. She was an only child from and only child, and you are her only child.” Deaton glances up at Stiles then, his lips thin. “You can leave Beacon Hills, if you choose to. But the land will perish without you here, and the Nemeton will die. If,” he pauses, turning his attention towards Laura, “you can convince your Alpha to reclaim her land, you both can share the load of the Nemeton’s power, and you can leave for greater periods of time.”

The Sheriff places a warm hand on Stiles’ back, whispers softly as he turns his son towards him. “I know this is a lot to take in all at once, believe me.” He rolls his eyes, “Deaton’s been trying to explain it all to me, but I’m not smart enough.” He smiles sadly, his eyes crinkling up in the corners, and he looks older than he should. “I don’t know what I can say to convince you to stay, or that I won’t let anything happen to you or your friends ever again, but I want you to stay, son. I want us to be a family again, and when Chris gets out, I want to have family dinners with Melissa and Scott and Lydia, and your pack.” He drags his hand up over the side of Stiles’ face, smiling. “I’d like for you to stay, if you can manage it.”  
Laura’s heart clenches in her chest. She glances at Derek, who doesn’t look at her on purpose. Cora nods slowly, turning towards Laura with intent, her eyes flashing accordingly. Laura sighs, places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He turns to look at her, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. “Laura, I—“

She shakes her head, taking the decision out of his hands. “I’m sure we can figure out something, Sheriff.” She grins. “I’d like a place to call home.” The _again_ goes without being said.

John chokes back a sob, wiping at his eyes as he pats his son’s face affectionately. Lydia runs into Stiles arms, curling her small body around his torso. “Welcome home,” she mutters excitedly. Scott nudges him, smiling.

Stiles tries not to fall apart.

* * *

_April_

Laura has the country tear down the old skeleton of the Hale house. She and the pack, along with Scott, Lydia and the Sheriff, watch the bulldozers knock down walls and carry their old memories away in heaps of burnt wood and ash. 

Stiles has never felt Derek’s hands grip so tight before, but he doesn’t say a word, even when his knuckles snap and regrow more times than they ever had before. Laura drags her sleeve under her nose and turns away as the last wall falls all on it’s own, and the air smells like the ashes of their family, until it doesn’t anymore. 

The land remains chard and burnt once the house is cleared away. No grass had grown around the remains of the Hale house since the night of the fire. “Residual energy,” Lydia says as way of explanation, passing her free hand under her eyes to dab at the tears that gather there. “Violent deaths like that—they leave an impression.” 

Laura doesn’t rebuild—not yet, and the Sheriff lets the three siblings stay at his house as long as they want, with Allison and Isaac taking up her old room, Derek occupying Stiles’ room with him, and Laura and Cora taking up the spare bedroom—of which they move the Queen sized mattress down to the garage and bring up two twins, so each can have their own bed and their own space. They remodel the garage, making it an actual livable space with insulated walls, and it ends up being the biggest room in the house. They place a nursery in the corner, with a crib and a changing station and a rocking chair, and place Boyd and Erica in the remodeled garage.

The Sheriff corners Derek and Stiles one afternoon before his shift and looks at them with embarrassment high on his cheeks. “I know you two are in a relationship, okay, and I can’t keep you apart after how long you’ve been together,” he sighs, and the smell of his anxiety is becoming suffocating, “and the fact that you’ve both been on your own for this long only means that I won’t be able to keep you apart,” he shuffles his feet, toeing the floorboards with the tips of his shoes. “So I won’t try to keep you apart or make you sleep in different rooms, but just, you know, try to keep the, uh, intimate times of your relationship to when I’m not home or nights when I’m working, okay?”

“Ugh! Dad!” Stiles cries, blushing scarlet red. Derek bites his lip, but doesn’t hide the fact that his ears are tipped in crimson colors.

“Y-yes sir,” Derek stutters out, shaking his head but refusing to make eye contact with anyone but the floor.

“I’ve already told Allison and Isaac the same thing, so, just, you know.” John scratches his face and turns, leaving for work quicker than he came. 

A few nights pass, and though Scott had told his mother (and half the town) that Stiles and Allison were back, and that they were found wandering the forests, neighbors still insisted on stopping by with tin-foiled pans of casseroles and pies that make Cora die a little inside. “I haven’t had pies these good since I lived with my old pack.” She mumbles, tears welling up in her green eyes. She shovels more bites in her mouth, trying not to cry, but it doesn’t work the way she wants it to.

Laura strokes her hair as she cries over the cherry pie that reminds her of her old Alpha’s cooking and smells like the cubs that she used to play with, that she’ll never see again. Cora races to her room, and even though the walls are thick in the Stilinski house, it does nothing for the werewolves hearing and the painful sobs upstairs that ricochet’s throughout the house.

Mrs. Addams brings an apple pie by a few nights later and pats Stiles’ cheek gingerly. “Good to have you home, son,” she says, and shoves an extra plate of cookies into his chest that make Derek’s mouth water.

“You have to get that recipe,” he begs after he devours nearly the whole plate, leaving only one for the Sheriff. Stiles will probably never get over Derek’s sweet tooth, he thinks fondly. 

Melissa stops by with a pack of beer and a bag of stale chips and salsa the next night she gets off. She sets them down on the table and brings Stiles into her arms, peppering his face with motherly kisses. “I’ve missed you.” She muses, and Stiles grins back up at her.

“I’ve missed you too,” he says, and she pats his hair, moving over to Allison and grinning at Isaac, introducing herself as Scott’s mother and Stiles’ surrogate part-time mom. 

That night, they decide to bring Melissa into the fold, with Laura’s permission. 

“We’re werewolves,” Laura explains, sipping her beer and leaning back. She waits for Melissa to say anything, to scream and run away, anything, but all she does is laugh loudly, throwing her head back with the effort. Cora places a hand on hers, asking if she’s okay.

“I saw you, once, when you were a child.” Melissa says, turning boldly towards Derek. “Stiles and Scott were just babies, and Claudia and I were new mothers, so we would meet up at the park and let the kids play in the sand, and I saw you hanging upside-down from the monkey bars.” She raises her brows at Derek, and he has to stifle his laughter, because oh god, he remembers. “You fell, and I watched your arm snap at the elbow, and when I ran over to you, you weren’t even crying and your arm wasn’t broken anymore, even though I heard it snap, and I watched the remaining bruises heal.” She shrugs, “your mother came to me then and reassured me that you were fine, but I could see the panic in her eyes. Claudia only waved at your mother and grinned.”

“I remember that,” Laura giggles so hard she had to cover her mouth and set her drink down before she spills it. “After that, mom only let us play on the monkey bars if dad was around, because he’d catch us before we’d fall.”

Derek nods earnestly and Cora gasps at her older siblings, sounding offended. “Is that why he did that?!” She all but shouts, “I was ten before he finally let me climb them by myself!”

Laura and Derek laugh so hard that Stiles can’t help but smile. The Sheriff bumps his son’s shoulders, and Allison grins at Isaac.

Melissa spends the night in the Sheriff’s room and wakes up early with messy hair and beard-burn across her neck. Stiles gives her a knowing look, having heard enough from his father’s room as it is, but she just shuffles past him nervously, dragging Erica with her to the hospital. 

“How long’s that been going on, you think?” Laura asks, brow raised and a comical expression on her face.

Stiles shrugs, smirking. “He’s always had a crush on her, even before he married Kate. He just never thought she was interested in him after my mom died.” 

Laura hums thoughtfully at that, but doesn’t add anything more to the conversation, watching as Erica and Melissa both hustle out the door. 

Erica brings an ultrasound of the baby back a few hours later, a bright grin on her face as she shows the picture off and points, showing everyone it’s feet and toes and fingertips and cute little nose. “It’s a boy,” she says, and Boyd grins, pulling her into a hug, and kissing her fully on the mouth. She blushes, grins and turns towards the Sheriff with watery eyes. She pulls a magnet off the fridge and places the picture under it. She kisses the Sheriff’s cheek softly, and the older man blushes, holding her hand in his. “Thanks, dad.” She says, so softly that everyone almost misses it. John nods, kissing her forehead before sending her back to her pack of wolves, of whom all cooed over her huge belly. 

John stands there, watching them interact; the way their eyes flickered golden in the light, reminding each other of their love for one another. He doesn’t have to have known these kids before they came back to Beacon Hills to know that they all suffered, some way or another, in their old lives. He didn’t care that they weren’t blood, or that they weren’t his to call his sons and daughters, but he did it anyways and opened up his home to them, because they were all damaged, and they were all hard workers, and they brought his real son back to him, more whole than he had been for quite a long time now. He could see it in their body language and in their eyes that over the past year, they had grown closer than any family bond could manage, that they were a family within themselves, and each of them contributed a little of themselves to create a combined whole. 

He’d wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, come down to the kitchen for a glass of water and see the combined lot of them, clustered around the furniture, one touching another who touched another and another and so on, keeping the pack together—and he knew they all slept better those nights, when they were all together. He didn’t wake them. He couldn’t, his heart wouldn’t allow it. 

Melissa came back over later that night, after her shift was over, tugging along an excited Lydia and Scott. She didn’t say a word about last night, only grinned at him tiredly. They’d figure it out together, sooner or later, and John is a patient man. He knew in his heart that he’d always belong to Claudia, but there was room enough for another woman, should Melissa ever want him. 

She gives him a pointed look and a coy smile, constantly glancing at him throughout dinner. Laura bumps his hip later, nodding towards Melissa. “You know Stiles already considers her his second mom, right?”

“I thought that’s what you were.” John jokes, sipping leisurely from his glass. 

Laura’s laugh sounds light bells, and John can hear the angels weeping. “Very funny, John Stilinski.” She smiles softly, and John watches the smile fade as she rubs her knuckles over the dew of her glass, tracing absent swirls into the sweat of the glass. “You know Melissa loves you, right?” She asks, and listens carefully as John’s heart ticks up. She pats his leg, standing then. “I was in love once.” She says, and John leans closer to her, feeling the way she tenses against his side. “He betrayed me in a way that I can’t even—“ she sniffs, drags her sleeve under her eyes, without realizing her vision had started to grow blurry again. “I killed the man I loved, John. I probably won’t ever love anyone ever again. But you,” she glances at him, smiles a watery smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You have a real chance here, with Melissa. Fuck whatever Kate made you think.” 

John cringes, because he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to hear another woman say ‘I love you’ without flinching away, even if he does have the room in his heart for Melissa. But where Kate was hard edges and jagged lines, Melissa is soft, and just as weary, if not more, than John. He’s seen how a group of damaged kids can build something beautiful, so why can’t two full-grown adults create something just as unique? 

“There you go.” Laura stands, her eyes still a little more watery, a little glossier, than they should be as she leans forward, rapping her knuckles on the table, “you have a real chance to build something really amazing.” She turns then, setting her glass beside Derek and leaning into him. He turns towards her and curls an arm around her middle, pulling her closer and kissing the crown of her head. 

But she’s right, and John knows it. John did have a chance here. He stands, set his glass of liquid courage aside, and wipes his nervous hands on his jeans. He strides over to Melissa and pulls her into a deep kiss, ignoring the crows of laughter and soft sighs and even softer, serine _‘ews’_ that flowed forth from his children’s lips.

* * *

Deaton calls Stiles into his office one morning, asking to speak with him—it’s not really urgent, but he has time now, and he doesn’t know the next time he’ll catch a break like this.

Stiles kisses Derek on the cheek before he leaves, grinning when the older man flashes golden eyes at him and saunters off, reaching the clinic before too long. 

“Stiles, good to see you.” The darker man says with a smile.

Stiles nods his head, taking a seat across from him. “You wanted to talk?” 

“Yes,” Deaton nods, standing and reaching for a book on his bookshelf. “I wanted to know if you’ve ever made a blood sacrifice to the earth. You said you could hear her, right?”

Stiles nods slowly, before turning his hand over and laying it flat on the desk in front of him, in between Deaton and himself. “I assume you mean this.” He indicates the scar. “Kate slammed my hand in the car down, when I was out past the curfew she set for Allison and I,” he swallows thickly, his skin tingling around the faded scar, “I ran into the forest to get away from her. I knew it’d be worse if I didn’t get back soon, but I needed to get away from her. I stuck my palm in the dirt and it healed.” Deaton extends his hand for Stiles’, traces the faint, pale line like a war injury and sighs, curling Stiles fingers in towards his wrist.

“That’ll do it then.” 

“What will?” Stiles asks, confused. 

Deaton pat his clenched fist and sits back in his chair, pulling himself up to the desk. “A blood sacrifice,” he nods, gesturing towards Stiles’ hand. “You made one.”

“Yeah, and?”

“What did you ask for?” Deaton asks then, his brow raised, and Stiles pause, stunned. 

“Ask for?” He breathes softly, looking down at his hand and unfurling his fingers. “what did I—?” 

Deaton waits patiently, sitting with arms folded over his chest, a look of patience on his face. Stiles searches his memories back to every moment of that day, trying to remember if he’d even said anything aloud to himself, and then it hit him.

_“I just want to get away from here. I want to be someone else, somewhere else, if only for a little while.”_

“Oh,” he said softly, looking down at the scar on his hand. “I asked to be someone else,” he says finally, curling his hand into his chest.

Deaton unfolds his glasses and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. “What you have there, Stiles, is a scar that intersects your fate lines. You got what you wished for. You could have been a powerful witch, still can be, possibly, with the right training, but you asked to be someone else, and the earth loves you enough to give it to you. You’re lucky.” Deaton looks tired, almost saddened, but caring enough to continue. “You should learn the basics about witchcraft, in case you ever need it.”

Stiles nods slowly, looking at Deaton even though he seems far away, like he’s underwater and the tide is pulling him farther out to sea. “I’d like you to teach me some of the basics then.” He gulps, “if you can?”

Deaton smiles, pushing the book he’d pulled down towards Stiles. “Since you’ve already done one, let’s talk about blood sacrifices, shall we?”

Stiles groans, but opens the book anyways.

* * *

_June_

Erica goes into labor just before the end of June. She lies on Deaton’s exam table, surrounded by Boyd’s scent and the scent of her pack just behind the door of the exam room. The birth is quick, and though it’s painful, Erica’s whole body heals quickly enough.

Body breathes praises into her ears, holds her gaze and kisses her sweaty forehead. “I love you,” he says, and though he’s only eighteen, Deaton can hear the serenity in his voice, and it makes him grin as he cradles the newborn wolf-baby to his chest. 

Deaton cuts the umbilical cord and watches as the baby heals quickly as well, and he knows the baby is a wolf for sure. He can hear the pack outside picking up on his surprise. Laura slowly opens the door and gazes at the bundle, held close to the vet’s chest as he swaddles the bundle tightly. Deaton cleans away the afterbirth from Erica’s babies face and hands him to the pack’s Alpha, watching with amazed eyes as the baby boy blinks up at her, eyes flashing golden. Laura smiles happily, her eyes flashing red right back at the baby. The baby gurgles, and Laura grins, handing him off to Erica. “He’s pack,” Laura whispers softly, her hand twisting into Erica’s, kissing her beta’s knuckles. “Good job, sweetie.”

Erica sighs, leaning her head against Laura’s chest. Deaton covers her with a blanket, giving her some modesty as the rest of the pack slowly shuffles in, fluttering around Erica and Boyd and the beautiful James Boyd. 

Back at the house, John and Melissa wrap presents for the new baby, place them in the living room and prepare a brand new car seat for the couple to bring the baby home in. Deaton calls them after the birth and they drive over in the Sheriff’s off-duty car, settling the car seat in the back and walking inside, hands held between them. 

Erica passes her baby to John and sits up slowly, wincing at the sharp pain that rockets through her abdomen. “I’m fine,” she breaths, shaking her head when John shifts the baby to one arm and offers to help her lay back down. “I’m fine,” she reassures him once more, grinning up at the older man. “Look at him, dad, isn’t her beautiful?” She asks, and John’s heart hiccups in his chest, clenches pleasantly when she calls him _dad_.

John gazes down at the baby in his arms, and Erica can’t stop grinning at him. Stiles comes up behind his dad and leans his chin on his father’s shoulder. The baby flashes golden eyes, and John jerks a startled laugh, rocking the baby soothingly when he starts to hiccup in the older man’s arms. 

“I remember when you were this small.” John says softly, and Derek comes to his other side, fingers brushing Stiles’ hand. “You were so quiet and so happy all the time, until your teeth came in, and then until you learned to talk.” He scoffs and Derek chuckles at his other side.

Erica hums thoughtfully at that, “I wonder what wolf babies are like.” 

“Cora used to chew on the furniture.” Stiles offers, and Derek laughs again, shaking his head as Cora makes an offended noise in the background.

* * *

The kids all decide to go back to school and make a greater effort to graduate together, and though school is technically still out for Scott and Lydia, they provide information and tutoring (mostly Lydia) to the rest of the teenagers so they can get a head start on summer classes and play catch up.

Stiles, Allison, Cora and Isaac begin on their summer semester, the county schools making an exception for them, while Erica and Boyd concentrate on raising their baby. 

“We’ll go back and get our GED’s or something.” Erica says reluctantly. “It’s no big deal. I just wanna spend time with my baby.” She smiles down at the bundle in her arms, gumming greedily on her fingertips and gurgling happily.

Scott grins at Lydia, who shakes her head. “After I have my Doctorate, we can have a baby too.”

Scott groans. “But look at that _faaaace!_ ” He sputters when she continues to shake her head. “We’re gunna be old parents, Lyds!” He whines, throwing his hands in the air.

Lydia smiles softly, patting his leg. “Then we’ll be old parents.”

* * *

John doesn’t tell Allison where he’s taking her, and only her, but he drives her to the state prison, two hours away from Beacon Hills. She gives him a suspicious look, but he’d only gotten the call that morning about Chris’ release. 

He drives her around the back, where a man in an orange jumpsuit is standing, holding a backpack over his shoulder full with old possesions, and an old golden band around his ring finger that seems almost too thin now.

Allison gasps, her eyes wide as she looks from John to the man on the sidewalk, and then she’s out of the car before it stops rolling, jumping onto the older man who crumbles to the ground, pulling her into his body like he can absorb her if he tries hard enough. “Oh Ally,” Chris bites out, his tears splattering to the concrete below them. He strokes her silky black hair, buries his nose in her waves and clings to her. 

John steps out of his car and stands before Chris, kneeling to place a hand on the man’s shoulder. Chris looks up at him, his cheeks tear stained and wet as he laughs a rough “thank you,” then buries his nose in Allison’s curls again. 

The prison received orders for a release of one Christopher L. Argent on a count of new evidence that proved the man’s innocence. John assumes it’s the conclusion from the mysterious counsel, but he can’t be certain. 

John packs the two of them into the back of his off-duty car and brings them back to his house. Chris doesn’t have a place to stay, so again, John opens up his house to the older man. “You’ll have to sleep on the couch for a while, until we can get you a bed.” John offers sheepishly, but Chris just shakes his head.

“I’ve got some lawyers who can help me get a new house,” he says confidently, then turns to Allison. “I’d like for you to come live with me, i-if you wanted.” He offers, his hands open to his daughter. “I know you’re a werewolf and a part of this pack with your brother,” he glances at Stiles, sitting at the table silently, “and I know you have a m-mate,” he says the word a little hesitantly, glancing at Isaac, who turns towards Boyd and Erica, standing off to the side. “But maybe I could buy a house for sale in this neighborhood, and you wouldn’t live far from them, maybe?” Chris sounds small, and looks broken open like a storm cloud, but Allison is the sun to his gloomy days, and it breaks John’s heart to see her go—but she’ll always be his daughter, too, he reminds himself.

“Oh dad,” she whispers, “we’ll go house hunting tomorrow, okay?” She takes his hands in hers, “and I’ll live with you, as long as we’re not far and I can take Isaac with me.”

Chris looks constipated for a few minutes, but eventually he nods, accepting that his daughter isn’t going anywhere without her mate, and he’s still smiling, late into the night, when Allison sticks by his side the whole time. 

Melissa makes another appearance later with Scott and Lydia in tow and a whole grocery store full of food that Boyd and Isaac barbecues up and serve, while baby James plays at Erica, Cora and Lydia’s feet, smashing small rocks in his palms. Scott and Stiles catch up on some much needed bro-time, playing obnoxiously loud video games and shoving each other around the living room as Chris and John talk in low voices.

Laura and Derek come home last, having been at the Police Academy all day training hard to become the new Deputy’s for John. They smell the cooked meat instantly, mouths watering as they move past everyone in a blind haze to get to the cooking meat, appearing at Boyd’s side with plates already stacked high with chips and cold drinks in their hands. 

Chris stiffens as he sees Laura pass by him, remembering the cashier at the art store he used to buy his art supplies from, the woman he loved without having ever said a word to in his entire life, the woman he wishes he could have mapped the plains of her skin with his lips, but Allison only pats his hand, mistaking his anxiety for fear. “Let the wolves eat, then we’ll introduce you.” She grins, and Chris relaxes, relieved. “You know Cora.” She gestures at one of the girls by Lydia. “And the one with stubble is Stiles’ mate.” She says, “his name is—“

“Derek Hale, and his sister, Laura Hale, the Alpha.” Chris nods. “I know them.” He taps his head grimly, a thin smile on his lips, and Allison’s own smile slips slightly, falling into a half-crescent of remembrance—like she could forget that her family hunted the werewolves for centuries, and the one woman she should’ve never trusted was the reason that Derek and Laura and Cora were the only Hales left alive today. 

She pats her father’s hand, but doesn’t leave his side as Laura plops down on the grass next to James and wiggles her pinky at his cute, chubby face, and Derek moves to sit on Stiles’ lap and mess up his game, pulling his controller from the consul and smirking triumphantly when Stiles squawks impatiently, still finger-blasting his remote, and Scott wins whatever game they’re playing by taking Stiles out easily. 

Chis watches Laura interact with the baby, watches her throw her head back and laugh when Lydia or Erica say something funny, watches her smile from his seat beside Allison. He aches, somewhere deep inside, for her laugh to never stop. He wishes, just once, he could’ve had the courage to talk to her, before the whole shit-storm that is Kate—in and of herself—took Laura’s family from her forever. 

Chris sighs, looking away and back towards Allison—God, she looks so much like her mother. Chris will always love Victoria, and she’ll always be in his heart, but Victoria has been gone for a long time—and she’d been more married to her work and hunting than she had been to Chris; but that was okay! Chris was an artist, in love with his paintings, and Victoria had given him the most beautiful daughter in the world. 

Laura glances over at Chris sometime during the night, feeling his eyes on her, and smiles sweetly.

* * *

House hunting for Chris, Allison and Isaac proves to be easy enough. The neighborhood is small, and there is of course a small house for sale a few streets over. Chris doesn’t like it to begin with, but they buy it anyways, and the pack moves over there to help remodel like they had with their tiny cabin in New York, and like they had with the garage at the Stilinski house for Erica and Boyd and baby James.

It only takes a few weeks for the house to finally start to come together, but there is still so much to do. Laura and Derek are busy most days, training at the Police Academy, but on the weekends they come over and help all day long. Derek only zaps himself three times trying to rewire the electrical outlets before he finally yips loud enough that Stiles cackles manically and passes the job off to Boyd.

“Hey, want some help?” Laura asks, when she’s finally given up on the shingles on the roof. Chris looks up from glaring at the hole in the drywall he’s been trying to patch up and startles to see Laura so close, offering help like an extension of her hand. Her smile is blinding, and Chris nods, stuttering out a small, “thanks,” before handing her the bucket of plaster and drywall square.

She grins, holding the square into the hole in the wall as Chris plasters around it and smooth’s out the excess, trying hard not to concentrate on Laura’s hands or the plaster and paint around her fingertips and they way she smiles quietly and brushes her hair back, leaving trails of wet plaster on her cheek and the cuff of her ear. 

Chris thanks her again, softly, stifling a nervous laugh when she offers to help him paint next. “I’d appreciate it,” he says, unsure of how he feels.

Laura nods certainly, picking up paint samples Cora had left for them and holding them to the walls, taping the colors she approves to the drywall, turning to Chris for suggestions. He shrugs, unsure. Laura rolls her eyes, “you have an opinion, Chris, it’s your house!” 

He picks up a few other samples, a pale yellow and a rustic orange. Laura’s nose scrunches up, and she pushes his choices back into his chest, pointing at her samples taped to the wall—burgundy and a soft, off white cream color that makes Chris think of Laura’s skin.

He grimaces and Laura huffs out a laugh.

Laura and Chris paint most of the rooms together. They grow closer, more comfortable with each other as they continue bickering over colors that create a pleasant atmosphere. Most of the time they spend laughing at each other’s more outrageous theories on colors. 

“Red and yellow make you hungry! That’s why all the McDonalds you see are always red and yellow!” Laura screams, gripping the ends of her hair in fist-fulls, “you can’t paint the loft those colors!” 

Chris barks back a laugh sardonically. “They’ll be good colors for the kitchen then, huh?!” He shouts back, but there’s no heat in his words, and his cheeks are red with mirth and laughter, and Laura’s heart skips a beat. 

Derek and Stiles looks over at her, both with twin quirks in their brows and knowing smiles tugging at their lips. She glares at them, but there’s no anger in her eyes, only affection.

She turns back to Chris, grumbles with a smile on her face. “Fine, you want your kitchen to look like ketchup and mustard, you paint it!” She retorts, hands on her hips and her shoulders squared, as if for a gunfight.

“Fine! I want my kitchen to look like a McDonald’s!” 

Laura rolls her eyes and moves on, the pack cackling behind her as she gives up and throws down her paint examples. Chris smiles victoriously, pride in his chest. He eventually caves and paints the loft the way she wants it—tanned toffee with espresso brown accents.

It’s nearly a month’s time before the two of them make it to the master bedroom, the last room to be painted after the hallways have been thoroughly decorated and accessorized and half of the house is furnished and ready to be physically lived in.

Laura sits beside Chris on the master bedroom floor, comparing paint swatches and accent colors, even going so far as to bring a color wheel and _show_ Chris the accent colors that would match perfectly for the walls. He just shakes his head at her, smiling the whole time. He’s already painted the whole house in colors she’s picked. He knows he’ll paint this room whatever colors she wants, too, it’s just a matter of time.

She finally turns to face him head on, glaring at his choices of green and paler green. He looks at her, criticizing her choices of blue and hazelnut, but he stops, taking in her considering look and bright, pale green eyes. Laura had always been beautiful, even when she was the teenage cashier at the art store and Chris was just a starving artist, before Kate had taken it upon herself to burn the Hale family to the ground.

Laura sighs softly, the lines around her mouth pulling up as she reaches out a hand to trace the curves of his face, wiping away the paint smear high on his cheek. His eyes have warmed up, turned honest and accepting, and the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes have softened and straightened, creasing only when he squints at words or even at Laura herself—like she’s some great puzzle that needs to be solved, and in all honesty, it makes her blush, goddamnit. His stubble is peppered black and white with specks of grey, and she knows he’s a killer, knows he’s killed her own kind, knows he’s seen his fair share of death, but she doesn’t even think it matters anymore, and that doesn’t stop her from tipping forward, throwing her arms around his neck and plastering her lips over his.

* * *

_July_

Laura and Derek graduate from the Academy in mid-July, and Laura get’s promoted to Sheriff’s Deputy soon after. Derek remains a rookie cop, but he doesn’t mind, especially when he ending up as Parrish’s newest partner. Parrish is a hard worker, and he cover’s Derek’s back and makes sure Derek makes it home to Stiles every night—even if there isn’t very many violent crimes that happens in Beacon Hills.

“So,” Parrish begins, licking his fingers free of the escaped ketchup, “just so I know, for my own personal curiosity, you didn’t kidnap the Sheriff’s kid and run off with him, right? He’s not, like, got some long-standing form of Stockholm Syndrome, does he?” Parrish asks over the bitten parts of his burgers. It’s their lunch break, and it’s delicious, and Derek can’t help but laugh.

He shook his head, smiling at his partner. “I did kidnap Stiles, I guess.” He said, thoughtfully, once he stopped laughing. 

Parrish nods, look contemplative, then satisfied. “Good.”

Laura gets partnered with the Sheriff most days, and it’s a nice change of pace for them all. Laura and Derek only work the day shift, but the Sheriff still picks up night shifts, when he can, and it’s nice to have the extra income now—and the extra food, considering he lives with a pack of wolves. 

Parrish catches lunch with them most days, and Derek makes sure the Sheriff eats healthy almost every day, giving him one day a week to eat junk food—Wednesdays, and God does John love Wednesdays and curly fries.

* * *

_October_

With the Argent house finally complete, Allison, Isaac and Chris move in, leaving one empty room behind at the Stilinski house. Cora moves into Allison’s old room and creates her own space, makes it beautiful and unique and Stiles spends more time in her room with her than he does his own sometimes. 

Laura spends most night at Chris’ house, but the pack doesn’t seem to mind, and though Derek has mixed feelings about it, he respects his sister’s wishes. 

The kids all went back to high school in May, and while Scott and Lydia had started on their senior year; Stiles, Cora, Isaac and Allison have a few more classes to do before they were officially seniors, too. Summer school had helped greatly with that accomplishment.

James starts chewing on the furniture at four and a half months old.

Cora cackles for days at Erica and Boyd’s suffering.

* * *

Laura looks up from her coffee mug, swaddled in one of Stiles’ dad’s old robes that smell more of dust and mothballs than the Sheriff. “We have an uncle here,” she says absently, and Derek and Cora stiffen beside him.

The Sheriff looks up, his long flannel pants revealing a little too much of his ankle, and Stiles vows silently to go out and buy him more night clothes sooner rather than later.

“Where’s he at?” John asks, brow raised.

“Beacon Hills Retirement Home.” 

“Retirement Home?” Stiles questions softly, “that’s just another branch of the hospital.”

Derek nods. “He was crippled, from the fire. He’s catatonic.” 

“Whoa.” John sighs, setting down his own coffee mug, “this morning just got serious.” He scratches the back of his head and offers Derek and Laura a fatherly smile, patting Cora’s shoulder since she’s the closest to him. “Would you like to go see him?”

Laura nods, setting down her coffee mug and watching the steam seek over the brim. “I would.” She stands then, walking towards her room. Her fingers brush against the tense line of Derek’s shoulders as she passes, nodding to Cora who looks faintly horrified. 

Derek runs his fingers through his hair, raking his nails down his scalp. “Yeah,” he says finally, and Stiles rubs circles into his mate’s back. “Will you both come?”

The Sheriff nods, and Stiles smiles back at him, bright and earnest. “Of course.”

The whole house dresses quietly, meeting in the living room twenty minutes later. Laura’s somber expression puts Derek on edge, and he shuffles closer to Stiles with every breath. Cora grips her older brothers hand tight. “I didn’t think he survived his burns,” she mutters, and Derek’s shoulders tense even further, if at all possible.

John places his hands on Derek’s shoulder, smiling encouragingly, easing the tense line away with his thumbs. “Come on, then.” He says, and motions for Stiles to get the door.

The drive to the hospital is eerily quiet. Derek grips Stiles hand in a vice while Cora’s soft growls grow deeper as they near the hospital. Laura turns to look at her when the growls hit a crescendo and turn into soft, painful whines. She soothes her sister with gentle sounds like their mother used to when they were younger.

“We can always come back another time.” John offers, but Cora only shakes her head. Derek doesn’t meet his eyes, and neither does Laura, but Stiles just give him an encouraging smile.

The nurse that greets them calls for Melissa over the hospital intercom. When she sees them, she grins, bringing the group into her waiting arms and squeezing them all in the way that only a mother could. The Sheriff blushes when she holds him, and Stiles gives him a knowing look, pointedly grinning when his father blushes and coughs, patting Melissa on the shoulder as he passes. Laura giggles tensely and Melissa watches him go with suspicious eyes.

“We’re here to visit someone in the Retirement Home.” Stiles says, and Melissa cocks her head, going around to the computer at the Nurses Station and typing in a few code sequences before looking up at them.

“Name?” She asks kindly.

“Peter Hale.” Laura answers, and Melissa looks up at them, frowning. 

“Peter Hale?” She asks again, uncertain. She looks down at the computer and types in the name, and Stiles shuffles closer to the counter, trying to see over the brim to the computer screen. 

Melissa shakes her head, picking up the phone. She calls down to the Retirement Home and talks with the receptionist. “Hi, it’s Melissa. I’m looking for a Peter Hale?”

 _”One moment.”_ The woman on the other line says. 

“Yes, of course.” She’s put on hold, tapping her finger on the counter and staring at the siblings, uncertainly. She can feel the pack listening in on her conversation, and though that doesn’t really bother her now that she’s grown into the whole werewolves thing, it still kind of makes her uneasy as to what they’ll hear and how they’ll react.

 _”Melissa?”_ the receptionist calls, and Melissa hums her reply. _”You can send them down, and we’ll show them everything we have, but Peter Hale has been gone for almost a year.”_

Laura gasps, and Melissa holds up a finger. “What do you mean ’gone’?” She asks, seriously.

 _”My apologies.“_ The woman stutters, _”I mean, he checked himself out, after he woke up.”_

“What?” Laura hisses, eyes red, “he can’t just wake up!”

Cora’s eyes flash an alarming shade of yellow as she turns towards the Sheriff, who comes walking to their side when he notices the four of them tensing in unison.

Derek’s growling at Stiles side, flashing golden eyes at nothing in particular but the space between him and the counter. Stiles comes in front of him, shushing him softly and holding him close. His nails prick at Stiles’ hips, but Stiles ignores it, places his hands on either side of Derek’s face and covers his ears, making soft, soothing sounds in his throat that only Derek hears.

“Okay, let’s try this again. _What_ do you _mean_?” Melissa asks in a sickeningly sweet tone of voice, and the receptionist stutters her reply again. 

_”Why don’t you send your guests down here and we’ll talk to them?”_ She hangs up then and Melissa snarls, tugging at her ponytail and pulling it tighter.

She grabs Laura and Derek and pulls them behind her. “I hate talking to those people. They’re always such assholes.” She mutters, and Stiles and John follow behind them quietly, with Cora trailing behind last. 

“What happened?” John asks, bewildered. 

“I don’t know.” Stiles whispers, honestly.

They arrive at the Retirement Home after two minutes of speed walking and a tedious elevator ride. Melissa stomps over to the receptionist, a meek looking teenager who seems mildly alarmed by the approach of both the Sheriff and Nurse McCall.

“Where’s the DON on this floor?” She demands, and the receptionist points towards an open door. Melissa marches inside and motions for the rest to follow and they do.

“What happened to Peter Hale?” Melissa demands, and the DON, a short woman with greying brown hair and fierce blue eyes, a nametag reading out _Gabrielle Hampshire, Director of Nursing_ and an ironed, white coat hanging off her shoulders, looks up at Melissa with impatience. She smells of antiseptic and intolerance. She motions for the six of them to sit, even as there are only two chairs in her office.

She stands from her desk and walks around her office, closing the door behind the group and then moving back to her seat. “Peter Hale came to us a good handful of years ago, catatonic and badly burned.” She reaches into her desk drawn and searches through files then pulls out a thick manila folder, with the tab reading _Hale, P._ and begins flipping through it, showing them all pictures of Peter up and _walking._

“He was a medical mystery, if I’ve ever seen one. He began showing signs of brain function two years ago, about three years after the fire, and we worked with him. He went through several bouts of therapy before he was able to walk, and then we got him working with speech therapy and he picked that up rather quickly.” Her eyes move to Laura and Derek, then Cora and Stiles as she says, softly; “he was your uncle, yes?”

Derek nods because Laura looks too numb to do so and Cora isn’t even making eye contact. The sad scent of desperation wafting off of her almost makes Stiles gag. 

“Well,” she pulls on glasses and pushes them up the bridge of her nose, her lips thin and impersonal. “Peter eventually became advanced enough in his therapy that he plateaued, and there was nothing more we could offer him here. He sat around for a good month after that, just getting his baring and working on talking to the psychiatrists we have here, and finally we asked if he wanted to be released. He signed the papers and left a few days after that.” She passes a picture to them then, and Laura snatches it up too quickly. 

The picture is of a smirking, well-dressed Peter, grinning at the picture-taker. The burn scars are still pretty obvious on one side of his face, having taken a whole ear and a good portion of his nose, but they had faded to a sickly pink, rather than the blackened-red Laura remembers them being. He has a small suitcase in his hand and a dark jacket pulled around his shoulders and his hair slicked back and gelled in place.

Gabrielle clears her throat. “We assumed he went to wherever you two were located.”

“How long ago did he leave?” Melissa asks.

Gabrielle frowns, flipping to the last page in the file before turning it towards them all. “August 23rd.” She says, pointing at the date on the discharge papers. 

Laura frowns, scratching her head as she thinks back. “We were with Deucalion in August.” Stiles mutters, and Derek stiffens at the name. Cora looks wounded, and John places a heavy, fatherly hand on her shoulder. Laura had told him about this _Deucalion_ character and what he’d done to Cora and her pack from Wisconsin. 

He still has a bad taste in his mouth whenever someone says the name. They leave Gabrielle’s office, and Stiles can feel her steely blue eyes following them out long after they exited the hospital.

“I remember now,” Laura groans, her hands scrubbing over her face. “I felt something off back then, and I couldn’t put a finger on what it was.” She pushes the heels of her palms into her eyes then, “it was Peter. He was searching for us, for the pack.”

Stiles holds one of Laura’s hands while Derek takes the other, curling an arm around Cora as she holds her arms over her chest, trying to hold herself together. He presses a kiss into her hair, trying to snuff out the smell of misery. 

“Fucking Peter.” She growls, and Laura chuckles lowly.

“We’ll find him, Cora.”

Melissa and John follow behind, slower. They’re holding hands and standing close, their heads bowed together. “Will they be okay?” Melissa asks, and John sighs in a long-suffering manner. 

“Eventually.” John says, but he just watches the way his son curls around Laura protectively, and he wonders what it must have been like, living with wolves for a year.

* * *

Stiles jolts awake.

Derek’s asleep at his side, but he’s soon awake too, staring at Stiles with blurry eyes. “Stiles?” He slurs, placing a hand on his mate’s stomach, “you alright?” He asks, but Stiles doesn’t answer right away, just listens.

There’s a sound, far away, under water, of a woman’s terrified screaming, drilling into his brain and drowning out every other noise that should be in its place instead. Stiles closes his eyes, drags a hand over his face and stands from the bed, trying to rid himself of the sounds of the earth, pulling him towards—something. Maybe it’s the Nemeton begging for his assistance. The screaming doesn’t stop, only intensifies, grates on Stiles whole being and goes against everything he knows. 

“I’m going outside,” he says, his voice sounding more breathless than it should. He didn’t realize he was sweating until he ran a hand over his head, the hair damp and cloying. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Derek asks, already pulling back the covers and swinging one leg over the edge of the bed.

Stiles shakes his head, moving before his brain can catch up. He pulls open the door and only registers he’s outside in the front yard when Laura appears at his side, dressed in an oversize BHPD shirt and shorts, staring out at nothing with him. 

“You hear that?” Laura asks, her eyes glowing red up at the stars, even when she doesn’t turn to look at him. 

The screaming stops then, suddenly, and Stiles shivers unpleasantly at the thought of what that means. It’s replaced by a soft, hysterical weeping.

Stiles nods, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know what to do,” he replies, feeling numb, standing in the cool fall night in nothing but a pair of boxers. The stars look like pinpricks in the sky, and the weeping sound is stronger now, almost deafening if he concentrates on it. 

“Residual energy,” Stiles mumbles, looking at Laura blindly. She turns to him, but the fog over her eyes is just as thick as Stiles. “Lydia said it, back when we had the house demolished.”

Laura moves first, towards the street, but Stiles grabs her hand and holds her back. She growls in her throat, warningly. “Something’s in the forest.” He says, then turns to look at Laura, her eyes swirling red back at him. Stiles eyes remain yellow as he stares back at her. “We’ll check it out in the morning.” He says, and Laura snarls at him. He stands his ground, gripping her wrist just a tad bit tighter. “With the pack.” He adds. “Whatever happened just now is done, we can’t do anything about it.”

The weeping subsides then, remaining as only a soft whimper in the background of their minds. He sucks in a deep breath then, and he finally feels awake enough to register what all is going on. He drops Laura’s wrist like he’d been burned and stares up at the stars, then out at the forest. Laura comes to stand beside him again then, bringing him into her arms and crushing him against her. 

“We’ll figure it out in the morning.” She whispers, and Stiles nods, clinging to her.

* * *

There’s a body on the Hale property with a note attached to the blouse.

Laura plucks the note from the woman and turns it over in her hands, reading it before crumpling it in her palm.

John and Stiles frown down at the blonde hair and the clouded, familiar eyes staring back up at them. Her skin is ashen, grey with blood loss, and her lips are blue. There is blood on her neck, clotted from the claw marks there, and her white blouse is splattered from the hole in her chest and the bite marks tearing her in two. Grass and dirt fester in her hair, and the smell of this much blood makes Derek want to puke.

It had only been four hours since Laura and Stiles stood outside their house, listening to the sound of the screaming and weeping—and an act of murder this violent would make anyone scream, Stiles figures, but there was no way to prevent it. There needs to be a balance, he tells himself, feeling conflicted, and Kate upset that balance by burning the Hale family alive, by beating him and Allison, by poisoning his father. Kate upset the balance by being her, and whatever wolf did this was only righting the balance that was upset—even if it was the most violent thing Stiles has ever seen.

“Residual energy,” he says then, pointing at the purple flower that blooms beside Kate’s body.

Some kids called it in around six o’clock in the morning, and one of them threw up not far away. Laura can name what they had for breakfast, but she chooses not to, in favor of spitting on the body.

John turns to reprimand her, but she only cackles wildly, causing her brother and his mate to turn to her with wide, fearful eyes and worry in their hearts. Tears spring from her beautiful green orbs as she stumbles back to the cruiser, still laughing like a madman. “The Gods be damned,” she shouts, staring at the trees. She doesn’t even feel angry, just—just. Laura just feels.

Stiles looks over at Derek, tries to form words but he only ends up miming a fish. “I don’t have any words.” He finally manages after a few tries, and Derek just nods in agreement, eyes still lingering on his older sister.

John scratches a hand over his chin, throws the keys to Derek and jerks a thumb towards the cruiser. “Call the coroner,” he says, then turns towards his Deputy and takes careful strides towards her. “Laura,” John sighs, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Go home and take the day off, I’ll get this sorted out.” Then adds; “you don’t need to be here for this—you don’t need to _see this._ ”

Laura shakes her head, placing a hand on her hips as she bites her lip and stares up at the clouds. It’s not overcast, but God does she wish it was—she wishes it would pour and engulf her, wash her away and take her out to sea. “It’s Peter.” She finally says, the note burning a hole in her hands. The sharp edges poking at her palms, feeling like needles suddenly. 

John stiffens beside her, and he can hear the other two going quiet, turning towards them and listening. “It’s Peter’s handwriting.” She says, handing over the paper balled in her hand. 

John uncrumples the note slowly and reads it several times before shoving it in his pocket. 

_I love you dearly,_ it says, written softly, as if he barely pressed the pencil to the paper, _I’m glad you survived. All my love to you and yours, my dear sweet niece._

“Tell no one about this.” John whispers sternly, pointing a finger at Laura’s chest with his brows raised.

Laura nods, wiping away the angry tears that roll down her cheeks and drip from her chin. Her hand hasn’t stopped trembling, and she doesn’t even know when it started.

* * *

Chris doesn’t give Kate a funeral. He has her cremated, then throws her ashes off the same ledge in Beacon Hills that she threw their father’s ashes down. Gerard was just as twisted as Kate, if not more, and a part of Chris is more than happy that they’re both gone now.

Stiles and John accompany Chris, but just to keep up appearances. Allison stands beside Chris, but she doesn’t cry, and she doesn’t dare touch the ashes. 

The rest of the pack waits for them back at the house, including Lydia, Scott and Melissa.

Stiles still feels the ache of old bruises from Kate’s hand, but there is a strange calm that comes over him as he watches her ashes fall over the cliff. He almost wants to cry.

They leave their memories of her on that cliff top.

* * *

_November_

Laura looses the tingling sensation that normally accompanies her thoughts of Peter—it literally just disappears one evening, and that confuses her more than it worries her. She can normally sense Peter whenever she wants to. She takes her cruiser and meets Deaton at his clinic to talk about it and ask questions.

“There are several reasons why you can sense Peter, Laura,” he says, folding his arms over his chest when he brings her into his office. “Peter was your mother’s brother, so when the Alpha powers passed to you, Peter was still part of your pack. He always was, even when he was in to hospital and unresponsive.” 

“Then why couldn’t I feel Cora?” She asks, waving away his explanation like she didn’t want to hear it. “Cora was my _sister_ , I should have sensed her over Peter, but I didn’t, not till after we found her.” 

“You experienced a lot of trauma when you received your Alpha powers. You probably didn’t even realize what you were sensing most of the time, at least in the beginning.” And that’s true, she only realized she could feel Derek when he wasn’t near her after they’d been separated for a few weeks and she kept smelling pine trees, even when she wasn’t near any. “Am I correct?” Deaton asks, a knowing look on his face and a shit-eating grin on his lips.

Laura rolls her eyes. “Okay, yes. Go on.”

“Cora joined another pack, probably before you go to hang of your Alpha powers, so Cora was no longer in your pack, and that’s why you couldn’t sense her—she was no longer yours to look after.” He extended a hand in explanation, “when you found her again, and she became part of your pack, you could sense her fairly easy, right?” Laura nods once, sternly. “The same goes for Peter,” he explains, “but he was catatonic, so whatever you could pick up from him was just a constant feeling. You probably didn’t even know it was there until he reacted.”

Laura waits for it, feeling the dread wash over her.

“So, my thoughts would be, either Peter found another pack and joined them, or he’s dead.” 

Laura grimaces. 

“Or,” Deaton sighs, looking displeased and uncomfortable, “he’s ascended ranks.” 

Laura groans, covering her face with her hands.

* * *

Scott shows up at the Stilinski house the next night, curled in on his side and wincing in pain. 

Stiles answers the door and gasps at his best friend, his nostrils flaring at the scent of his blood. Scott smells like wolf, and he’s bleeding through his shirt at an alarmingly quick rate. His skin looks ashen and pale, and sweat clings to his temple as he gasps out; _“Stiles.”_

Stiles growls angrily, not at Scott, but at the fact that he can smell another wolf on Scott, one that isn’t part of his pack. He grabs Scott by the shoulder and drags him inside, his eyes flashing gold as his dad and Laura round the corner. “Derek!” He screams, and Laura is on Scott in a second, wrenching up his shirt to examine the bite and pushing him down to the couch. No one will even care about the bloodstains in the morning.

Scott gasps when Laura’s fingers brush against the tender, enflamed skin, and his dad is on the phone instantly, calling for Melissa to come over, and to _hurry._ Scott looks panicked and scared when John says Melissa’s on her way. 

Scott grips Stiles hand in his, tighter than he could before. “I can’t hurt my mom, Stiles,” he says breathily, “I came here ‘cause I knew you could help,” his eyes flicker to Laura and Derek briefly, “but I can’t hurt my mom, Stiles, I won’t.”

“Don’t worry,” Derek says, coming alongside Stiles, a damp washcloth in his hand as he wipes the sweat on his forehead away gently, “we’ll help you learn control.” 

Laura smooth’s his hair out of the way of his eyes and places a calming hand on his cheek. Her eyes flicker red, and while Scott’s eyes remain brown, he doesn’t look away, and slowly, he slips from consciousness. Laura stays by his side the whole night, leaching away his pain, even when Melissa gets there and stares at the wound, watching as the skin knits itself back together slowly, over an hour or two, before she touches smooth skin and gasps, wrenching her hand back.

Laura smiles sadly. “I’m sorry for this, Melissa.” She says, and bows her head. “But the bite’s taken. He’ll wake up as one of us, and we’ll train him as one of us, if he accepts me as his Alpha.” She tries to keep a straight face, but she doesn’t know how she’s going to manage all these damn teenagers by herself. 

Melissa seems conflicted. “It’s not you, Laura, it’s not,” she sniffs when Laura arches a brow at her, “I just wish I’d been there, when he was bitten. I wish I could’ve—“ she doesn’t know. She wishes she could’ve stopped it, yes, but only to spare Scott the pain he suffered when he received it. But now she knows nothing can really hurt him, not really, at least. 

Laura places a slightly bloodied hand on Melissa’s shoulder. “I’ll look after him. We all will.” 

Melissa nods. “But—“ she looks at her son, his face slack in sleep, “who bit him?” She asks, worriedly.

Laura purses her lips and frowns. “My uncle,” she says, and Melissa startles. 

“Peter?”

Laura nods.

“Huh. I guess nothing really stays gone long.” Melissa pushes the hair clumps on her son’s temple behind his ears, sighing as he pants in his sleep and his body heats up like a never-ending inferno.

* * *

Scott wakes in the morning with an appetite that could rival that of a small army. “Has anyone called Lydia?” He asks when Stiles and Cora comes down, with a uniformed Derek and Laura on their heels.

Stiles shakes his head with a shitty grin. “Nope, we’re leaving that to you.” He hands his friend his cell phone, Lydia’s name already on the screen.

“Good luck.” Derek stays sarcastically, patting Scott’s shoulder roughly.

Scott gulps.

* * *

Scott had told Lydia about his transformation the day he woke up a full fledged werewolf, and while she’d appeared angry at first, even pissed, Scott could smell that she was just worried and concerned, so he gathered her up in his arms and whispered his love into her ear, holding her close despite her flailing and hissing and empty threats. Eventually she just broke down and cried, running her fingers through his hair and asking, repeatedly, if he was okay. 

It’s Thanksgiving, and it’ll be Scott first full moon tonight, and while everyone had already been invited over for the food and celebration, Laura called the whole pack over to the Stilinski’s house in support of Scott.

“So what are we going to do about Peter?” Erica asks, bouncing James on her leg as he chews vigorously at a water filled balloon chew toy. He gets frustrated easily though, and then he sprouts fangs and pops the balloons, draining them of their liquid and spilling it all over Erica’s jeans. 

She grunts, setting the baby down on the grass and grabbing some napkins to pat herself down. “Anyways,” she continues, as if baby drool and spit up wasn’t all over her legs, “we’ve all become terribly domesticated, and I need some action or something, ‘cause I will go crazy.” She grumbles, trying to get her hands on the slippery toy at her son’s mouth.

Laura and Lydia look amused, watching as James tugs the toy away and continues to chew happily on the flattened parts. Erica gives up, flails her arms and leans back in her chair with a roll her of her eyes.

Laura shakes her head and laughs softly, shrugging in response. “I guess we’ll talk about it tonight,” she glances up at the moon, just slowly starting to make her way into the sky as the sun sets. 

Someone had built a rather impressive bonfire for the evenings gatherings. Boyd adds logs every now and again, stoking the fire with smaller sticks, poking the embers.

Laura takes in her surroundings, gazing at each of the members of her pack. It’s grown, and seems to continue to grow every time she turns around. 

Derek and Stiles remained disgustingly co-dependent and gross and in love. Allison and Isaac still came by nearly every other day to visit, but they stay primarily at Chris’ house. Chris and Laura continue to date with the occasional sleep over at his house. Melissa and John prove to be similar to their teenage sons, seemingly co-dependent and gross and quite possibly, in love. But they won’t say the words yet, for free of jinxing anything before it has a chance to blossom. Erica and Boyd still live in the remodeled garage of the Stilinski house with James, who mostly is babysat by John when he’s at home, and by any member of the pack that feels like ditching classes or has an off day of work. Scott and Lydia though, had seemed the normal pair of the group, but now they were more apart of the pack then ever. Laura was almost reluctant to have Scott as part of the pack—though the kid is sweet, he can be awfully stupid—but Lydia had proven to pull both their weights, regardless of her size—and besides, she was a badass _banshee,_ who wouldn’t want that on their side? 

Cora, though, sweet little Cora, had begun to bring a girl home with her most days after school—Malia Tate. 

Laura could smell the girl on her little sisters skin, could smell what she was as soon as they walked in the door together—and she’ll admit, she cornered them both at the front door, sniffing Malia’s hair and growling low in her chest.

“A werecoyote?” Laura asked, a brow quirked and a smile playing on her lips.

“Laura!” Cora hissed, pulling a blushing, stuttering Malia away, “god you’re so embarrassing!” She’d cried, running up the stairs with the new girl. 

Malia had come back down the stairs later and nodded at Laura respectfully. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I’ve just never been around these many werewolves before, and you caught me off guard, but I, uh,” she bit her bottom lip, worrying her teeth into it, “I mean, I like Cora, as-as more than a friend, and it’s just that, you know, her being a werewolf and me being what I am, we just, _you know!_ ” She threw her hands up, flailing her limbs uselessly, looking worried that Laura may just snap at her.

Laura had pet her head. “Don’t worry, as long as you don’t hurt my sister, I won’t hunt you down,” she winked and tapped the side of her nose, “just remember, I have your scent now.” 

“Laura!” Cora screamed from up stairs, running towards them. Malia blushed fever red and went up the stairs to meet the beta.

Malia had come to their Full Moon barbecues nearly every month, and currently, she’s attending their Thanksgiving celebration, sitting on Cora’s lap, their legs tangled together in the chair they’re sharing. Laura smiles, relieved that her little sister’s finally found someone to share a little comfort with, even if it’s only a passing fancy—which she hopes not, because she does truly like Malia, but you know, _teenagers_.

Chris comes to sit by Laura’s side with a merry smile on his lips. “Have you been drinking?” She asks, knowing she doesn’t really need to ask.

Chris shakes his head, knowing that if he answers, his heart will cheat him out of the lie. Laura narrows her eyes at him playfully, leans over and kisses him, tasting the whiskey on his lips.

“Liar,” she whispers against him, and he only chuckles, shaking his head as his ears burn crimson.

Derek and John stand next to the grill, making small talk about current cases. Laura should really be over there, talking with them and giving her opinion on the recent string on thefts in the area, but she’s just enjoying her time with her pack—her family.

Stiles brings out paper plates from the house with Boyd and Scott in tow. They set up a table full of condiments and side dishes, complete with one of those assorted vegetable trays. When he’s arranged the table the way he likes, Stiles turns and shouts; “food’s ready!”

Slowly, the group makes their way towards the grill with plates in their hands and growls in the stomachs. Derek always did make the best burgers—for those who didn’t want the turkey Stiles slaved over. 

The group eats and drinks, talking merrily and happy amongst themselves. It only takes another hour before the sun to fully set and for the moon to make her full appearance.

They watch as the moon rises high above them, all silent as the fire rages on in the fire pit before them. The pack has gathered around it, pulling up chairs to surround the fire in a circle and keep warm as the night brings with it a chilling breeze. There’s no clouds in the sky tonight, only stars and a fierce, beautiful moon. 

Derek curls an arm around Stiles’ middle, smiling into his shoulder as he glances over at Scott, who buries his nose in Lydia’s hair despite her warning to not mess it up and just breathes harshly. Stiles gives his best bud a considering look, before calling to Scott softly. 

The brown-eyed boy peers at him with golden eyes, blinded by red hair, breathing through his nose the strawberry and apples scent that is Lydia. His hands rest on her hips, clawed fingernails being just as careful not to cut her or tear her dress.

Stiles smiles softly, making himself look small so Scott doesn’t feel threatened. “Just breathe,” he says calmly. “Use Lydia as the anchor to your human side. We’ve talked about this,” and they had, but Stiles can understand how this might be a little frightening anyways. “Close your eyes and concentrate.” 

Scott does, and with the pack surrounding him, he finds it slightly easier to hold onto his human side. Lydia’s hands find his, pull them from her hips and curl them around her middle. 

“Scott,” she says, sharply, and he looks up at the side of her face, eyes reflecting the fire in front of him. She tries not to let her heart tick up at the sight. “You love me, right?”

“Yes,” he says, muffled by fangs that have overgrown his lips just the slightest bit.

“Then you’ll go get me some iced tea.” She moves then, quickly, standing and turning to look at him, waiting—expecting.

He’s probably too shocked to realize it, but his fangs recede almost instantly and he stands, walking towards the kitchen before he pauses and turns back, looking at the rest of the group for reassurance. Lydia waves him on, looking smug and ever helpful. 

Scott just grins at her and shakes his head, heading inside to grab her drink. Stiles high fives Lydia and then they all begin to quiet down when Laura stands, walking towards the fire. 

“We all know that Peter is the one who bit Scott, and we all know the only way to turn someone is by becoming an Alpha.” She sighs, put upon, rubbing her forehead in agitation. “We have to figure out what to do with him,” she says, pausing to add; “as a pack.”

“Can we just, I don’t know, bring him into the fold?” Melissa asks, shrugging. Laura can’t really blame her, and while Melissa’s heart is in the right place, Laura knows that solution wouldn’t work.

Derek shakes his head. “Politics.” He says simply, and Cora groans in an aggravated manner. 

“Are we really gunna try to enact some stupid tradition that we haven’t participated in since our family was alive?” Cora hisses. Laura and Derek flinch in unison at their little sisters words, but Cora barrels on. “He’s still our _uncle,_ guys.” Cora flails, looking angry. “Peter may have turned Alpha and bit Scott, but he’s still family.”

“Would you have me step down as Alpha then?” Laura growls, and Stiles winces at the thought of serving another Alpha, even if it was just another Hale. He doesn’t think he can, and unconsciously squeezes Derek’s hand for reassurance, his unhappiness bleeding out of his pores like a gaping wound.

“Can’t _you_ make him step down?” Stiles asks softly, and Erica nods, holding a sleeping James close to her chest. The soft panic rippling off Erica makes Boyd tense beside her.

Laura’s shoulders drop. “The only way to take an Alpha statues away from another Alpha is to kill them or have it passed on from a previous Alpha.”

John straightens in his seat. “What about your claim on this land?” He asks, and everyone turns to him. He shrugs, gesturing at both Stiles and Laura. “You two have a claim on this land no one can dispute, right? Can’t you just kick him off, make him go somewhere else and just, I don’t know, schedule visits with him and his pack?”

The wolves glance at each other, their eyes flashing in consideration. “It might work.” Melissa says softly, “but what if he refuses to go?” 

“Then we fight.” Laura growls low in her chest. 

Cora stands then, shaking her head and grabbing Malia. “I’m not listening to this.” She mutters, dragging Malia inside, before turning around, pointing a clawed finger at Laura with flickering gold eyes. “This is ridiculous, Laura. Peter is our uncle. There has to be another way to take his Alpha statues without killing him. Call Deaton if you have to.” 

Laura growls at her, warning her away, and Cora goes with a wounded look over her shoulder. “We have this family, Laura. But Peter’s family too.” She whispers before closing the door behind her. Malia looks torn between wanting to hear more of the conversation and wanting to follow Cora—eventually she relents and follow’s Cora up the stairs. 

Derek sighs, running a hand over his forehead and closing his eyes. “Maybe we should call Deaton,” he suggests, being Laura’s second, “we haven’t even seen Peter. Maybe he just doesn’t think we want him in the pack and that’s why he turned Alpha. Who knows?” 

Chris is quiet at Laura’s side. “We could track him and ask him.” 

John points at Chris and nods, as if the same idea hadn’t occurred to him twenty times in the last five minutes, “we could _track_ him!” 

Laura crumbles, nodding her head. “All right.” She relents, “we’ll track him. But when?”

Scott raises his hand, standing towards the back of the group with Lydia’s drink in his hand. Laura rolls her eyes and gestures for him to speak. Stiles giggles quietly and Scott glares at him, flashing golden eyes. “It’s polite!” He hisses lowly and Melissa smiles encouragingly. Laura clears her throat, raising a brow. “Oh!” Scott turns back to her, looking at each of his pack for a second then shrugging. “Why not now? I mean, we’re all here, aside from Cora and the coyote girl—“

“Malia,” Isaac supplies, and Scott nods feverishly.

“Yeah, her. It can’t be that hard, right? If he’s still in the area?” He looks over at Stiles, who grins back at him. “Can you sense him, in the forest or anything? Or are we stuck to just tracking him throughout the night and hoping for the best—no offense,” he mumbles quickly, turning to look at Chris, who just waves his apology away with a smile. 

Stiles shrugs, “I don’t know if I really have the power to sense things like that, or at least I don’t really know if I do or not, but I can try.”

“Well, try!” Scott hands Lydia her drink then goes to his friend’s side, “what do you need?” 

Stiles sighs, standing then, patting Derek’s cheek lovingly. He looks back at Scott and his smile lessens. “Soil and blood.”

* * *

He draws the knife down his thumb and Derek growls unhappily at his side while John hisses through his teeth, the scent of blood making his stomach churn uncomfortably—especially since it’s his son’s blood. Stiles forces his healing back, grits his teeth against the sting as he buries his hand deep into the ground, pulling at the dark soil and rubbing it between his fingers. 

“Where is Peter Hale?” He asks softly, whispering to the earth. She responds in kind, her hum against his skin in a way that pleases both him and her. He closes his eyes, feeling the familiar, faint tug against his tattered skin. She shows him the forest, green and growing with him and Laura both here beside her. Her pride is ebbing in waves, lapping at Stiles skin and he grins as she walks him towards the edge of the Preserve, where the Nemeton lay. She slows beside him, and her pride slowly fades, replaced by a soft warning, an unhappy feeling overwhelming him. A man leans against the wide tree, his palms laid flat on the surface of the stump, grinning up at Stiles like he can see him as clear as day. 

“He’s in the forest,” Stiles whispers, staring straight at the man. He knows the pack can hear him, but he doesn’t want to loose his connection to the earth yet. “He’s at the Nemeton.” He hears Laura murmur something at him, but he can’t make it out. Instead, he stares at the man, realizing he doesn’t look much like the man from the picture anymore. His burns are completely healed, his skin smoothed and freshly shaven, flawless and beautiful. He looks dashing, in a kind of sinister way, and maybe a little sad even, tattered around his mind’s edges. The man continues to look at him, then he bows his head and bends his elbows, leveraging himself off the stump and walking deeper into the forest.

 _”Come find me,_ ” he whispers, and Stiles gasps, ripping his hand from the earth and turning towards Laura.

“He wants us to come find him, Laura, and I don’t think that’s a good thing.” He speaks rapidly, and only realizes he’s shaking when Derek places a tentative hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer protectively. 

Laura sighs, rubbing her head. “Let’s go see what he wants then.”

* * *

Chris hands John a loaded cartridge, with a stern look. “Just in case,” he says, and then pushed the cartridge towards John. “They’re wolfsbane bullets.” He says as way of explanation. “For killing werewolves.”

John looks at the cartridge, flicks one bullet free to examine it, and they look normal it’s unnerving. He unclips the cartridge from his gun, slides the wolfsbane bullets into the chamber and sighs softly. 

Chris looks satisfied. He’s got a few guns at his hip, and though John is opposed to Chris handling weapons, he gives in when Laura gives him a look, as if his opinion in this matter isn’t worth a damn.

He’d kept his mouth shut and asked Melissa to stay behind. Erica hands James over to the nurse and kissed her son’s curly sun-kissed hair, Boyd standing beside her as her own personal strength. “Keep him safe, okay?” She asked, and Melissa smiles, patting the blonde’s cheek.

“Of course, Erica.” She coos at James, turning and heading towards the kitchen to set him in his highchair. Lydia follows soon after Melissa, winking at Scott as she went by him. Scott blushes, looking towards Stiles.

Derek begs for Stiles to stay behind, but the younger beta wouldn’t have any of it. “My dad’s going, my mate’s going, my Alpha’s going, my best friends going, my _pack_ is going, Derek. I won’t be left behind like some army wife.” He scoffs, looking stunning and cocky with his hands on his hips and a challenge on his face. 

John stumbles across them arguing in whispers in the kitchen. He pats Derek on the shoulder, sighing softly. “Learn to recognize a losing battle, boy.” He winces when Derek rolls his eyes, “I never learned with his mother, maybe you can learn from my mistake.”

Derek grumbles unhappily, brows furrowed as Stiles slides on some socks and running shoes, just in case. Allison pulls her hair back into a pony tail, straightening her shirt and then turning to Isaac, whose been watching her closely, with a loose smile on his lips. He doesn’t say much, not really, but he pulls her closer and kisses her softly, leaning his forehead against hers and staring deep into her eyes. 

Scott places a tentative hand on Stiles shoulder. “You sure he’s there?” He asks, gaining his friends attention. 

Stiles nods slowly, “I know he’s there, waiting for us. It was like he could see me, Scott, it was so weird.” He shakes his head. “I know he’s there though.”

“Maybe it’s a trap?” 

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Stiles nods, looking over at Laura. “He knows Laura’s here, and if he wants a fight, and god forbid he wins, he gains a whole pack, Scott. A _whole_ established pack, with a claim to the land, and an Emissary.” Stiles spares a fleeting glance towards Laura again, who meets his eye and smiles meekly, knowing exactly what he means by his comforting stare.

“Don’t worry,” Boyd says, opening the door and walking out into the night, the full moon high above them, casting light and shadows around Boyd’s figure, “if he wants a fight, he’ll get one.” He shrugs, “but I don’t think that’s what he wants, honestly. I mean, it’s their uncle, and even when we were up in Canada with Deucalion and his pack, we killed him for one reason, but not because we wanted his pack or his land.”

Derek nods thoughtfully, and Isaac shakes his head. “But why bite Scott then? Why become an Alpha? What the point of that?”

Laura sighs, taking Allison’s hand in one of hers and Chris’ in the other. “Why don’t we just go find out then, huh?” 

“You’re awfully calm about this.” Chris observes, and Laura just looks more resigned the more the pack talks about it. 

She feels as if she’s marching to the guillotine, walking the plank, whatever—she’s going to have to fight Peter, she knows that, and it won’t be over something as plain and simple as a pack or a claim to the land, it’ll be something complex and obscenely _Peter_ , like his desire to want things that others have and that he can’t obtain—and who better to take that from than his family, or more importantly; _Laura’s family?_

“Come on,” John says softly, and the rest grow quiet as he crosses the kitchen to kiss Melissa goodbye before he goes. Chris leaves a gun on the counter for Melissa and Lydia, just in case. They nod at him gratefully and turn back towards James, leaving the gun where it lay. John kisses Lydia’s cheek and walks out the door with the pack. 

Off they go, then, into the forest.

* * *

Cora comes downstairs after the pack leaves, with Malia at her side. She looks angry still, smells miserable and depressed and disgusted.

“Cora,” she whispers softly, holding her hand close to her chest and stopping her at the base of the stairs. “I get that Peter is your uncle and he was always there for you, but he’s challenging your sister.” She looks scared and sad, and Malia has to steel herself before she continues. “If you had to choose, who would you rather follow, your sister or your uncle?” She asks, stroking the other girl’s hair between her fingers, watching the soft strands fall to her shoulders. 

Cora sighs in resignation. “I don’t know, Malia,” she shakes her head, “I love Laura, and I love Peter. In another life, probably Peter.” She shakes her head then, looking up through long lashes like she’s ashamed.

Malia purses her lips and Cora looks startled. Malia never looked angrily upon her. “Laura killed her mate for you.” She pokes Cora in the chest, right above her heart. “Do you think Stiles could do that to Derek, even if it was his dad Derek held captive? Do you think Allison could to that to Isaac if it was Stiles he held captive?” Cora doesn’t answer, so Malia barrels on, feeling fearless. “Honestly Cora, I don’t know if I could kill you, even if you had both my parents and my little brother.” She pokes Cora’s chest again, sending a zing straight to the beta’s heart. “Mates are hard to find, and your pack may be the exception, but werewolves are pretty monogamist, from what I’ve seen. Laura _killed_ her mate for you, and yeah, he was an awful guy and she has Chris now, but still. Mates are mates for a reason.” Cora opens her mouth to speak but Malia shakes her head, looking stern as her voice grows bolder, angrier. “You need to decide who you’d rather follow, because if you’re uncle and Laura fight tonight, I don’t know that Laura can accept defeat and loose everything all over again. And I don’t know that Derek can survive without her, which means that Stiles won’t either, and John won’t make it long with his son and Scott won’t follow anyone without Stiles, and then you’ll loose your whole pack, one by one, until all you have left is me and your uncle.”

Melissa rounds the corner slowly, her eyes somewhat more watery than they should be as she curls her arms around baby James, and Lydia stands behind her as support. Cora hadn’t even been paying attention; hadn’t even known anyone had stayed behind. She turns to look at Melissa sheepishly, expecting to be talked to, but all Melissa does it pull her into a hug, smashing her against her chest as she smoothers the teenager in her body in the most comfortable hug. She pushes Cora away then, pats her cheek and walks past her, holding James closer to her than she probably needed to. 

“Be safe.” Lydia says, and shoves the gun Chris left on the counter into Cora’s chest. She gives Malia a pointed look, then turns to Cora. “Make sure my boyfriend and his idiot friends make it back, okay?” She flips her hair over her shoulder and follows Melissa to Boyd and Erica’s room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Malia turns to Cora with a small smile on her face, kisses her quickly before taking the gun from Cora. It feels like a ton, an uncomfortable weight in her palms as she pushes it into the waistband of Cora’s jeans. 

“She’s kind of terrifying.” Cora mutters, and Malia nods seriously, giggling. 

“Still not as terrifying as when she told us she’s going into Microbiology. Do you realize that means she’ll get her hands on the Ebola virus?”

* * *

The wind is cold in the forest as the pack approaches the Nemeton. The man stands against the stump again, looking smug and pleased to have such a group gathering around him. They cut off his exits and effectively trapping him within their circle.

Laura stands in front of him, a stern, hard look on her face. Stiles and Derek stand at her flanks, both their eyes glowing gold in the moonlight.

“Ah, my dear niece and nephew. How I’ve missed you.” Peter grins and places a clawed hand on Laura’s shoulder, ignoring the growl that fells from Boyd’s pulled back lips. “Did you get my present?” He asks, and Laura stiffens unhappily. 

“A dead body isn’t a very good present.” Derek growls from her side, and John agrees with a grunt.

“Even the murderer of your family?” Peter asks then, a grin still on his lip and a brow arched deviously at them all, turning to look at each and every one of them—Allison, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, John and Chris, his eyes falling back on Laura, Derek, and Stiles. “You do know it was the Argent’s who killed our family, right Laura?” His eyes slid over to Allison and Chris, glowing red before flickering back to blue.

Laura’s jaw clenches, but she nods anyways. “Yes, but only Kate. So leave the Argents out of this.”

Peter shrugs dramatically, withdrawing his hand. “If you say so.” 

Stiles shakes his head, feeling disgust at Peter’s attitude, even after only being in his presence for a mere few minutes. “Why did you become an Alpha?” He asks, and Peter turns towards him curiously.

He sniffs the air around Stiles, moving slightly towards him before Laura and Derek both release a steady, warning growl. Peter stops mid-step, keeping himself were he is, just in case. He grins, asking; “What are you?” then sniffing again, more subtly, “I felt you a while ago, I felt your presence when I was trying to communicate with the Nemeton. But you’re obviously a wolf. Where you a witch before? A seer?” His eyes grew with excitement, his scent pleased and greedy.

Stiles doesn’t answer and Derek growls, standing in front of his mate protectively. He leaves Laura unguarded on one side, and Stiles tenses at that meaning. Laura doesn’t look bothered.

Peter grins, “ah,” he muses, reaching to pat Derek’s cheek, despite the growl growing louder as Peter’s hand nears his face. “I’m happy you found a real mate, Derek.” Peter says, and it almost sounds genuine, had Derek and Laura known better. 

“Peter,” Laura barks, and he turns then, coming face to face with Chris, who’s hand lays on a gun at his waist, safety off. 

Peter growls low at the scent of the wolfsbane bullets within the gun, moving around Chris without taking his eyes off him. “Yes, dear Laura?”

“Why did you become an Alpha? Why not just join our pack?”

“Because I wanted my own pack.” Peter shrugs, simply, eyes lingering on Chris tentatively. “I found the boy first, scented him when he was in the forest. He smelled of wolf, then I realized he smelled of _you_ and I had to have him.” He grins at Scott, sending him a sidelong glance that makes Scott’s stomach flip uncomfortably. “How are you?” He asks, and Scott stiffens.

“I’m fine.”

“Your first full moon tonight, yes?” 

Scott nods, uncertain. “Laura’s a good Alpha.”

“Yes, she got that from her mother. But,” he shrugs, “there can only be one Alpha in this family.”

Stiles stiffens as Peter’s eyes glow red and Laura growls back, her fangs extending faster than they had before, but before either of them moved, two shots ring out over the sound of their snarls, deafening the pack’s gathered growl and stunning everyone into a frozen state of confusion and fear.

Laura looks down at her stomach, then around to either of the beta’s flanking her. She pats Derek’s shoulders, touches Stiles’ stomach, then looks at the Sheriff and Chris with a question burning in her eyes, examining everyone slowly, but neither Chris nor John had even gotten their guns raised in time. 

Laura’s eyes land on Peter. His hand goes to his chest tensely, comes back bloody as he wheezes a breathy laugh. He glances over at a girl standing in between two trees, a gun raised high in her hand and tears slipping past her chin.

 _“Cora,”_ he groans happily, his hand falling over the two bullet holes, “what—oh,” he smirks weakly, looking towards Chris with pained, reddened eyes. “Wolfsbane, imagine that,” he says simply, and black blood begins to ooze from his abdomen. 

Laura gasps at the blood seeping through Peter’s fingers and moves quicker than she needs to, gently pushing Peter down onto the flat stump of the Nemeton, holding a hand over the bullet holes, feeling the soft squelch of blood soaked clothe beneath her fingers and the hissing gasp as pain rockets through Peter’s core. He flashes his red eyes at her, growling lowly, but she ignores him.

Everyone moves then, but it already seems too late. Chris ejected a bullet, pulling it apart and reaching for his lighter, but Cora grabs his hand and shakes her head. “It’s already too late,” she said, pointing at the black veins climbing up Peter’s jawline, reaching his cheeks before she even finishes her sentence. Her eyes are leaking, and Chris pulls her into a tight hug, smoothing his hand down the back of her head.

Laura’s eyes never leave Peter’s, and he grips her hand over his wound, smiling weakly. “I guess this is what I deserve,” Peter mutters, leaning his forehead against Laura’s. “I came here to take your pack. I thought you were weak.” He glances over at Cora, who looks pained and guilty over Chris’ shoulder. Malia appears beside her, looking scared and sad all at the same time. Peter chuckles wetly, “but it looks like you’ve got yourself a pretty fantastic pack.”

Cora sniffs, wiped her tears away, walking towards Peter on wobbly legs. Laura looks up at her little sister, seeing tears slipping past her chin despite her best efforts to remain stoic.

“Cora,” Peter whispers, reaching up to touch her cheek and brush the tears away. He leaves bloody black trails across her face, and he doesn’t apologize. “You’re alive.” He smiled softly, and Cora leans into his hand anyways. 

“Why, Peter?” She asks then, “is power so important to you that you couldn’t let it go and just come be family with us again?” 

Peter stares at her for a long time, a blank, confused look playing across his features. Derek kneels beside Cora, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving Peter a soft, sad look that spoke of nothing but love—if you looked deep enough. 

“I suppose it was,” Peter said weakly, his skin gone pale and ashen. “I’m sorry Cora,” he looks towards Derek and Laura and grins weakly.

* * *

Deaton sighs as he leans against his elbows, looking down at the body of Peter Hale, dead on his exam table. 

“Can you bring him back?”

Deaton looks up in shock, a mixture of conflicted anxiety and terror clear on his face. “I’ve never done such a thing. It’s better if you leave this be, Stiles. If you were to bring something back from the dead, it _always_ comes back missing something. Do you understand?”

Stiles nods slowly, understanding. He looks towards his feet, toeing the ground in defeat. 

“Burn the body, then.” Cora demands with puffy eyes and wet lashes.

Deaton nods, wheeling the body away. Laura stands beside Cora and Stiles, breathing out a sigh that sounds more like a sob. Stiles tugs her closer, holding her against him as she cries, slumping into Cora on weak knees. Derek comes up behind them, pulling them all into his arms and curling his body protectively around them.

Outside, John looks at Chris, who stares up at the full moon, listening to the soft sounds of Laura sobbing through the open door. His daughter and her mate had gone back to the house, and Scott, Erica and Boyd had fled home as soon as they could, the couple convinced they needed to be near their baby, and Scott wanting to be at his mom and girlfriends side desperately.

John leans back into the wall, placing a hand on Chris’ neck and squeezing. Chris let out a long, steady breath. “So what now?” He asks, and John shrugs unsure and heart heavy.

“We pick up the pieces and we keep chugging.”

“Sounds good.” Chris muses, closing his eyes.

* * *

_March_

The pack is a little more solemn after the incident with Peter, but the wound it opened up for the Hale siblings slowly heals and becomes a soft scar; a reminder that only tingles sometimes.

Eventually though, the pack begins to integrate Danny into their mix, but only after his powers manifest and he uproots a tree by nearly punching it in half after a particularly nasty break up. Lydia purses her lips and the next night, Stiles and Danny and Scott are sitting in front of a television screen playing Mario Kart and making Danny smile for the first time in weeks. 

“Werewolves, huh?” Danny says with a shake of his head and a knowing smile on his lips. “Not surprising,” he’s shrugs, then steals Stiles’ bag of Doritos and runs him off the racetrack with his Luigi. Stiles squawks disbelievingly and tackles the other boy off the couch, while Scott’s crow-like laughter causes the whole pack to come and investigate the interesting noises coming from the living room. 

Danny had been surprised then that nearly everyone in the house was a werewolf, aside from the Sheriff, who was only a Sheriff with a gang of werewolves at his disposal, but Chris was a hunter, Malia was a werecoyote and Lydia was a banshee. Lydia had figured out then that she had a pretty deafening scream, even to the wolves. 

The nights the pack spends over at the Stilinski house become more and more frequent. It’s after one so particular night that softly, the earth alerts Stiles, waking him from a dead sleep.

There’s another wolf in the forest, creeping closer slowly, cautiously. There doesn’t appear to be any urgency in the wolfs’ heart, just a soft curiosity etched deep into his bones, and a wish, a tired hopefulness that Stiles finds somewhat comforting and familiar.

It’s nighttime, and at least he isn’t jolted awake this time with a sense of murderous intent like when Peter had come back and murdered Kate. Stiles pulls back the covers and swings his legs over the side of his bed, rolling to his feet quickly. He goes to Laura’s room quietly, opens the door and finds her staring out the window of her room, looking off into the forest with wide, alert eyes. The moon is high in the sky, illuminates her features in a way that makes Stiles shiver, his nerves prickling beneath his skin. 

“What do you think it wants?” Laura asks softly, just above a whisper. She doesn’t turn to him, her eyes never leaving the tree line, and she looks older, looks tired and wise and so much like how Derek had described their mother, Talia, that Stiles feels like he’s looking at a ghost—even if he’d never actually met the siblings mother.

Stiles shrugs, “maybe it’s just passing through.” He lays down on the foot of her bed, splayed out in his boxers and a soft, threadbare BHHS track shirt and closes his eyes. “We haven’t seen any omega’s in a while. It doesn’t seem hostile.” He breathes in the soft, subtle scent of Laura. Her scent has changed from the first time he’d met her, he’s noticed. She used to smell like fall, all spice and life and happiness. After Deucalion, her scent had changed, had hidden hints of sadness and misery and despair that etched themselves into her soul and would probably never leave, not really. Now, though, now those scents have lessened, are barely there. They’ve mixed with the scent of Chris and his own personal hell. Together they smell like misery and happiness and paint and charcoal—and how lovely Chris’ paintings of Laura had turned out.

Laura hums thoughtfully. “Wanna check it out in the morning?” She asks, catching Stiles in a momentary lull.

Stiles shakes his head, opening his eyes and sitting up slowly, leaning back on his elbows on her bed. “We could just go now. We’re already awake.” He suggests, tugging his fingers through the soft fabric of her sheets, smoothing out the wrinkles absently.

Laura nods slowly, pushing herself away from the window to her vanity, where she pulls a brush through her hair and pulls all the dark strands into a ponytail. She slips on some house slippers and turns to him expectantly, a brow raised as if she was waiting on him now. 

Stiles stands with a tired sigh and walks out of Laura’s room. He can hear Derek stirring in their bedroom, but he just follows Laura downstairs to the front room, holding open the door dramatically, motioning for Laura to go first. They stand outside in the dark, starring up at the moon and the stars, nothing but silence between them.

Slowly, a lone wolf appears at the end of their block, pausing with tense hesitation. Stiles turns to look at the wolf, quirking a brow at the creature before slowly, ever so slowly, the wolf approaches them, his head low and ears back, but eyes wide and all seeing. 

Stiles cocks his head at the familiar coat before chuckling softly, watching as the wolf trots up to him and his Alpha and rolls onto his back in front of them, looking up at Laura with hope in his bright blue eyes. The wolf extends his neck, shows his submission, but his eyes never leave Laura’s. Laura glances at Stiles, then at the wolf, then sighs softly, rolling her neck in unison with her eyes, as if to ask _why me?_

“It’s good to see you, Ethan.” She motions for the wolf to follow her inside the house. “Come on, then.” She says, and Stiles just cackles, bending to pet the wolf affectionately.

Ethan sleeps on Laura’s floor in his wolf-skin, at the foot of her bed huddled in a lonely ball until Laura throws a blanket over him, and then he doesn’t come out of her room until Derek offers him a pair of basketball shorts and a big shirt in the morning, and even then, when the whole pack comes over after school, Ethan just remains quiet and only smiles when no one notices him.

Danny slinks over to his side later on in the night, offers his hand and a soft, eager smile. “Hi,” he says, and Ethan shakes his hand. “I’m Danny.” The Hawaiian blushes high on his cheeks, his smile open and easy.

Ethan can feel the soft magic in Danny’s palm, the electric zing that bites at his cells and sings softly in his ears. He can see the way the other teen’s eyes are soft, kind in a way that he doesn’t remember ever seeing in another being. “Ethan,” he offers, and Danny’s smile looks like the sun—bright and intense and lovely.

Laura watches, listens as Ethan’s heart skips every time Danny glances over at him throughout the night, and sighs long-sufferingly. Lydia and Scott groan in unison. “Well, at least everyone’s paired off now.” Scott kisses Lydia’s neck and pats her thigh when she starts to laugh wholeheartedly. 

“Looks like we’ve got another one,” Malia says, hip-checking Stiles into the counter. He hisses, rubs the soreness away and glares at her as she cackles and trots to the living room tauntingly. Erica giggles and tugs at James’ ears, kissing Boyd’s cheek as she takes a seat beside Ethan and places her baby in the newcomers lap.

“Do you promise to babysit at least once a month?” She asks, her brow raised as if asking for him to defy her.

Ethan sputters, looks at the little golden eyed, golden haired baby in his lap with wide, terrified eyes. He looks back up at Erica with wide eyes and Chris chuckles behind his hand. “I don’t know anything about babies.” Ethan admits in a small voice.

Allison takes a seat beside him and grins wickedly. Isaac whistles lowly and walks over to Derek and Cora’s side, hidden in the kitchen away from everyone. “Don’t worry,” Allison says, “we’ll teach you.”

John throws an arm around Melissa and sighs happily. “Welcome to the family, son.” John mutters. Derek, Cora and Isaac come out of the kitchen, whispering amongst themselves heatedly.

Cora hands Ethan a beer with a tense smile. He accepts it, flashes blue eyes at her and a soft, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he says, and everyone stills in the room, watching. Cora’s lips go thin, fuse together like a tight seal. Her fists clench around the cup in her hands, and it creaks ominously in her grip. She flashes gold eyes at Ethan, and he relents, looks down at his feet and bares his neck to her in submission. Laura sends a warning growl around the room, and Cora sighs in defeat, lowering her eyes.

“We’ve all suffered,” she says, and her eyes fade back to their normal color as she turns and walks back to the kitchen. She run cold water over her wrists, breathes slowly and deeply, and Malia excuses herself to go comfort Cora, wincing when Ethan gives her an apologetic look.

James starts to hiccup, his eyes filling with tears at the tension in the room and Ethan instinctively begins to bounce his knee, pacifying the toddler until he starts to hiccup less and begins to giggle more. Erica grins, tugs her son’s ear playfully. “Don’t worry,” she says softly, glancing sidelong at the newcomer, “you’ll fit in just fine.”

Laura nods to that, and toasts to Ethan, listening softly to the steady heartbeat of her little sister when she reassured Malia that she’s okay.

* * *

_May_

It isn’t long before graduation, and finally, _finally_ , there is something to look forward to. Cora, Isaac, Allison, and Stiles finally get enough credits to graduate with Danny, Malia, Scott and Lydia. Ethan apparently has all ready graduated with his high school diploma, but he still tags along to watch them all graduate with an encouraging smile.

The day they walk across the auditorium stage, Jackson comes over to Lydia and tries to kiss her. Scott punches him, breaks his nose and growls so low that it vibrates the ground. Laura hushes him and shoos Jackson away with a wave of her hand and Melissa looks torn between bewilderment, pride and anger, but eventually she settles on a smile and a shake of her head. Stiles laughs for days at the shocked look on Jackson’s face and the weak, angry cry of; “my father is a _lawyer!”_

“I’m proud of you,” John says, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and hugging him tight. His eyes trail over to the rest of the pack, to Isaac beside Laura and Chris, to Allison at his side, to Boyd and Erica, to Cora, Malia, Scott, Danny, Ethan and Lydia, to Derek, and then finally back to Stiles. “I’m proud of all of you,” he says, and the pack surrounds him, a loud “aw!” resounding from them all as they crush their bodies against him. John rolls his eyes for show, but his heart swells at the way his son laughs and has to wipe away at a tear that doesn’t get the chance to fall. 

John leans forward and whispers; “your mother would be proud of you too,” into his son’s ear, and Stiles has to bow his head, throwing himself in his father’s arms and bury his face in his father’s neck.

“Thanks, dad.” He says, and John just grins into his son’s shoulder.

* * *

_June_

Summer comes around again, and Stiles sighs as he wakes to a noisy house and the smell of burnt pancake wafting up through the vents. He rolls over onto Derek, who only grunts and whines in protest, covering his head with a pillow against a screech that sounds like it came from Cora or Malia. “Tell them to go away, it’s my day off.” Derek growls nonthreateningly.

“No one cares!” Allison shouts from down stairs, and Stiles has to stifle his laughter as Derek proceeds to beat him with a pillow until he gets up and out of the room.

Danny and Ethan grin at him as he climbs down the stairs in nothing but a pair of boxers, and after breakfast and a shower, Lydia, Danny and he go see Deaton, as they had since Danny’s power manifested. He taught them more and more about witchcraft, and while Stiles’ wolf plateaued at one point during their current lesson, Deaton only smiles encouragingly, though there’s a bitter edge to it, and plants a hand on his shoulder. 

“Give your wolf a few days to get comfortable with your magic. Use it every day and try to give yourself a push. We’ll work with you and your wolf more next week, but for right now, you’ve learned all you can.” He shrugs, and Stiles slumps against the wall and looks down at his feet. “It’s not a bad thing, Stiles, don’t think of it that way,” Deaton smiles softer, pushing him towards the door. “Go rest.” He suggests, and Danny and Lydia give him a soft, sad look, but Stiles just leaves with a wave of his hand and a grin as wide as his face.

Stiles isn’t disappointed, if only a little saddened and beaten down in the pride area, but he takes the day off to seduce a sleepy Derek into solidifying their bond a few more times, and before long both of them are sweaty and gross and smell like a brothel left in the sun to bake. 

Derek leaves trails of kisses all over Stiles’ sweaty chest, his hands a pleasing, heavy, warm weight on Stiles’ skin, sliding in smooth motions over his body. “Let’s get married,” Derek breathes into his ear, nipping at the cuff, and Stiles giggles harder than he probably should have, but he nods, his fingers tracing Derek’s jawline before kissing him deeply.

“Okay.” He says, and Derek smothers his grin into Stiles neck, kissing at the sensitive spot beneath his jaw.

“Okay,” Derek says, and that’s enough for now.

* * *

* * *

_"we are here to laugh_  
 _at the odds_  
 _and live our lives_  
 _so well that_  
 _death will tremble_  
 _to take us…"_  
 **-Charles Bukowski**

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought of it! <3


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